


(I Just) Died in Your Arms

by lifeisrandom34



Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Science, M/M, Mentions of brainwashing, Weapon X Project, mentions of abuse, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:36:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 38,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7798495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeisrandom34/pseuds/lifeisrandom34
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter wasn’t sure how this had happened. In fact, he was considering that as the name of the memoir he would probably never write; "Not Sure How This Happened: The Peter Parker Story." This chapter would be titled “Peter and Deadpool investigate an explosion. No, I don’t think this will end well either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi kids. So, this is my first attempt at Spideypool fic and while I did read all of Cable & Deadpool in like a week, I do not claim to have encyclopedic knowledge of Deadpool, Spiderman, Cable, or the Marvel comics universe in general. I also deliberately took some liberties with the timeline in order to make the plot work. Other topics about which I know very little include, but are not limited to: guns, explosive devices, computer viruses, surveillance technology, physics, genetics, and surgical procedures. But, I decided to write about all of those things anyway. So...the science is probably inaccurate, but that's part of the fun of comics, right?  
> Many thanks to my eternally-patient beta Julia, my dear friend Jenna, and the staff of the coffee shop where I wrote most of this in a fugue state. You guys are the real heroes.

Spandex, Peter Parker decided, was not a summer fabric. At least, not in New York. Maybe it would work somewhere further north, like Nova Scotia. Or Greenland. Or the moon. Logically, he knew his suit was supposed to stick to his body. That was literally the whole idea. Spandex was aerodynamic, stretchy, and tight-fitting, all of which were nice, given that he needed to be able move quickly through the air and punch people in the face at a moment’s notice. Plus, Peter didn’t want to brag, but he’d been working out lately and the suit showed that off in a way that not everyone found totally disgusting. Peter used the Internet. He knew not  _ all _ of his press was bad. 

But none of that changed the fact that once the temperature climbed above 80, living inside the Spider-man suit felt like living inside New York City’s armpit. And New York City did not use anti-perspirant. Not for the first time since Peter had started his quest to end petty crime as a masked vigilante did he wish that breathable fabrics were more in vogue. He thought dreamily of the Iron Man suits he’d seen on display in the lobby of Stark Tower. Even the prototypes had air conditioning built in. Peter’s apartment didn’t even have air conditioning. But, at least it had a shower. That was going to be a concern, as Peter’s hands were so sweaty that they were starting to slide around inside his gloves. He hated to think about what kind of mess was waiting for him under his mask.

Part of Peter, the selfish part, wanted to say to hell with the nightly patrol and go home where, if he couldn’t be cool, he could at least strip down to his boxers and sit in front of a fan in private. But as often happened, his nobler side won out. He had seen the statistics. He knew that when it got hot outside, people got irritable, erratic. Tempers flared. People got violent. Crime went up. That’s when the city needed Spider-man the most. Power. Responsibility. That was the deal. So, he sat, and he sweated, and he waited for something to go wrong. 

Which, of course, something always did.

This time, it started with the faint crackle of electricity from somewhere behind Peter’s head, like his Spidey Sense, but less pronounced. Before Peter even had the chance to turn all the way around the electric haze materialized into the form of two people, one of whom immediately crashed to the ground upon re-entry into physical being. 

“Goddammit, Nate!” the splayed pile of red and black limbs (and what looked to be long swords) exclaimed. ”You have got to stop doing that without warning. It’s getting embarrassing.”

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach Peter realized that he recognized that voice. Even worse, he recognized the man attached to it. 

“And you’re usually so dignified, Wade,” came another voice, dry, but infinitely patient. 

Within seconds the man on the ground was up and rolling the kinks out of his neck, seemingly no worse for wear after his tumble out of non-existence. 

“Please, Nathan,” the man said, adjusting his mask so the opaque white eye holes matched up with where his actual eyes presumably were, “When I’m in the mask, it’s Deadpool. Mr. Pool, if you’re nasty.”

Nothing about the other figure who had materialized in front of Peter on the top of the Queens apartment building suggested that they had any desire to be “nasty.” It took a moment for Peter to figure out why the other figure felt familiar to him as well. He took in the tall, broad-shouldered frame, the white-blond hair, the massive metal attachment that took up the person’s entire left side, and the eye that glowed an eerie bluish-white, like it could see right into the fabric of reality itself. Which, Peter realized with a jolt of recognition, it probably could, because this was  _ Cable _ . Cable the X-Men affiliate from the future whose current day job consisted of trying to save humanity from itself or something. Peter also thought he’d heard that Cable was the president of some tiny Eastern European country with a made-up sounding name, but he could have been wrong about that. Peter didn’t have a lot of time to watch the news. He did know that The Daily Bugle had dubbed Cable “G.I. Jesus.” Though, if reports out of Cable’s self-made utopia in the South Pacific were to be believed, “Atlas” would have been a more accurate nickname. 

“I didn’t bring you here to argue about semantics,  _ Deadpool _ ,” Cable replied sternly. Though, Peter thought, maybe that was Cable’s normal speaking voice. A person with the entire store of recorded knowledge uploaded into his brain could probably afford to talk to other people like a disappointed parent, even if those people weren’t half as ridiculous as Deadpool. 

“Oh, well, excuse me for not reading your mind Mr. I-Used-to-Be-Telekinetic-but-Now-I’m-Mostly-Just-a-Pain-in-the-Ass. It’s not like you gave me an itinerary for this little trip before you bodyslided me without my consent! Bodyslided? Bodyslid? I don’t—see, now look what you did! I’m all turned around! I wish I’d never bonded with you at a molecular level!”

While Peter tried very hard not to find  _ that _ statement incredibly interesting, Cable heaved the world-weary sigh of a person who had had this argument before. 

“Trust me, Mr. Pool, so do I,” he replied. “But since we have, could we possibly turn to the matter at hand?” Cable gestured in Peter’s direction. Deadpool whirled around, just then noticing there was someone else up on the roof with them. He inhaled sharply, like an excited child, and let out a high-pitched squeal, like an excited child. 

“OMG, Spider-man! Hi! Wow, I haven’t seen you since, when, that time on the bridge? Gosh, what a small world. Nate, you want me to kill Spider-man? Seems a liiiiittle out of character, but, hey, who am I to—” Peter’s spidey sense flared as Deadpool reached back to unsheathe one of his ubiquitous katanas. Cable’s metal arm shot forward and stayed Deadpool’s arm before Peter had the chance to react. He stayed on high alert all the same. 

“What have I ever done that would lead you to believe that I would bring you here to kill someone?” Cable asked dryly, not letting Deadpool’s wrist go until the katana was safely back in its sheath. Deadpool didn’t seem too bothered by Cable’s handsiness.

“You mean other than how you used to be a mercenary who routinely and indiscriminately took the lives of others in exchange for cold hard cash?” Deadpool responded easily. “Or the fact that your holier-than-thou ass still hangs out with me?”

The two men stared at one another in silence for a few long moments before Cable rolled his eyes (eye? Was the glowing silver thing in Cable’s face an eye?) and turned back to Peter. 

“You’ll have to forgive my associate, Spider-man,” he said. “Wade isn’t house trained yet. We’re working on it. In the meantime, allow me to introduce myself—my name is Nathan, but I go by Cable.”

Peter shook the hand that Cable extended in his direction, hoping that the other man couldn’t feel how sweaty his hands were through the gloves.  _ He’s probably too polite to say anything either way _ . If being rejected by the Avengers multiple times had taught Peter anything it was that good leaders knew how to delicately handle awkward situations. Peter just hoped this encounter went better than any of the times he’d met with Captain America. Or Tony Stark. Or anyone else Peter had ever met in his entire life. 

“Spider-man,” Peter replied, despite the fact that Cable had literally just used that name to refer to him 18 seconds prior. Not a great start to the conversation, but still salvageable. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” Deadpool made an incredulous sound at Peter’s use of the honorific, but Peter ignored him and plowed forward. “What brings you to Queens?”

Cable’s expression was pleasantly neutral as he glanced between Peter and Deadpool, who was currently kicking pieces of rock off the roof onto the unsuspecting pedestrians below. He made Peter nervous, but the rocks were too small to do any real damage and New Yorkers were so used to the sky falling in the form of alien invasions or mad scientists trying to poison them en masse that some moron throwing pebbles from the rooftops didn’t phase them at this point. 

“Well, Spider-man,” Cable said. “I have a favor to ask. And before you say anything, I want you to know that I wouldn’t be asking you to do this if I wasn’t absolutely sure that you could handle it. I’ve been keeping a close eye on the reports about you, and you seem to be an individual with a strong sense of personal responsibility.”

The slew of compliments made Peter’s previous sense of unease begin to grow back. But he wanted to give Cable the benefit of the doubt. He was one of the Good Guys TM . He was fighting the good fight for all of humanity and whatnot and theoretically it would be a honor to be even a small part of that grander scheme. Theoretically.

Peter nodded. “Sure, whatever you need. How can I help?”

“I’d like for you to…mentor an associate of mine. Let him follow you on your patrols, show him how you do what you do, that sort of thing.”

Peter’s uneasiness transitioned into full-blown dread.

“Um. Just, can I ask…which associate?”

Cables glance flickered over to where Deadpool was now leaning precariously over the ledge of the roof, apparently trying his best to catcall a group of men in Jets jerseys standing at a hot dog stand 20 stories below. Realization settled into the pit of Peter’s stomach like a cinder block. 

“Deadpool,” Cable finally replied. “I’m asking you to mentor Deadpool.”


	2. Chapter 2

Manners alone, painstakingly instilled in Peter from a very young age by his Aunt May, kept Peter from laughing in Cable’s face and swinging off into the sunset, never to see Cable or the big red devil on his shoulder ever again. Suddenly the elaborate preamble detailing all of Peter’s many virtues made a lot more sense. 

_ Me? Mentor Deadpool? _ Somehow Cable had managed to dream up the only scenario less likely than getting super powers from a spider bite. Had he not stumbled across Spider-man’s long-standing aversion to murderers in his research? Did he think he could convince Peter to overlook that with a firm handshake and a pat on the back? It looked like the press was right about him: Cable was a visionary  _ and _ an maniac. 

As it was, silence stretched across the rooftop, heavy like the heat.

“I don’t…I don’t think that is a good idea,” Peter glanced over to where Deadpool still sat near the edge of the building. He had produced a cloth from one of his many pouches and was polishing one of his katanas with uncharacteristic focus and affection. Peter turned back to Cable. “Like, really. I really  _ really _ don’t think that’s good idea.”

Cable frowned and gestured to Peter to follow him to the side of the roof opposite of where Deadpool sat. 

“Listen, I know Wade can be a bit of a handful. Trust me, no one knows that better than me.” Peter realized that he was essentially being asked to babysit an extremely heavily armed, physically mountainous six year old. He felt a belated surge of annoyance with the Canadian government for allowing such a situation to be possible. He would have written a strongly-worded letter if he’d had any idea where to send it. “And I would handle it, er,  _ him _ myself if I could, but the situation in Rumekistan is delicate at the moment and, well…”

“Deadpool isn’t a great addition to delicate situations?” Peter guessed.  _ Or any situation _ . 

Cable nodded. “And Irene says we can’t keep him in Providence anymore. He…irritates her, I think.”

Peter didn’t know who Irene was, but he was inclined to side with her on this issue. He didn’t want Deadpool in HIS city either. 

“I understand your situation. And, really, any  _ other _ way that I could help and I’d be there in a second. I just don’t think I’m the guy for this job.”

“It’s not him it’s you? Not the first time some pretty young thing has told you that, is it, Natey-poo?” Somehow Deadpool had managed to sneak up on the two men despite Peter’s enhanced hearing and Cable’s…Cableness. He slung a massive arm around each man’s shoulder. Peter immediately shoved him off, but Cable accepted the half embrace. Or, he tolerated it, at least. When Cable didn’t reply, Deadpool reached over and patted Cable’s disconcertingly well-defined metal pectoral. “Don’t worry, buddy, ole DP here will help you win him back. Say, Spidey, how do you feel about pancakes?”

Peter blinked. “Um. What?”

“Pancakes! They’re like cakes, but you make them in a pan and douse them in butter and syrup and shit. Traditionally eaten for breakfast or brunch if you’re lazy or a douchebag? Do you—?” Deadpool glanced between Peter and Cable, an expression of genuine concern creasing his mask. “You guys…you have pancakes here, right? I didn’t just imagine it?”

“There are pancakes in New York, we’re just not sure why there are pancakes in this conversation,” Cable said. Deadpool immediately perked back up,

“Oh! Right. Well, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, am I right, ladies? And since you clearly want to get our nubile little Spider-friend here to obey your every command, you need to ply him with the second most delicious food known to mankind. So, while you two knuckleheads were over here trying to solve your problems through ‘communication’ and ‘mutual understanding,’ I was scouting out breakfast places. There’s one the next block over.”

Deadpool’s tidal wave of explanation washed over Peter and he was suddenly exhausted by the whole business. He didn’t really want to consider Cable’s proposal any further, but this was becoming a bit of a  _ thing _ and Peter would rather it not continue out in the open where the whole neighborhood could look out their windows and watch the insanity unfold. At least in a confined space the damage could be contained. Hopefully. He looked at Cable for confirmation and the other man seemed similarly defeated.

“So?” Deadpool grinned. “Pancakes?”

*****

Unfortunately, corralling Deadpool’s boundless energy wasn’t any easier inside the tiny greasy spoon than it had been outside. Despite being an objectively terrifying figure, Deadpool moved through the diner like a pinball: running into things, drawn to flashing lights, generally making way more noise than the cramped space required. He charged into the restaurant ahead of Peter and Cable, flinging the door open so hard that the screen door rattled in its frame and announcing to the startled waitstaff that he desired the largest stack of pancakes they could possibly produce in the next ten minutes. A large man in an apron took one look at the guns strapped to Deadpool’s thighs and scrambled back to the kitchen, shouting orders to the other staff. Most of the people in this area were used to seeing Spider-man scampering around in costume, but the combo of two masked types and Cable’s half-man, half-machine aesthetic was a little much for them all at once. A teenage waitress attempted to stutter her way through the specials as Deadpool flung himself lengthwise across the nearest booth. Peter thought that perching himself on the edge of a sticky vinyl diner booth next to Cable while a 16-year-old listed possible omelette fillings had to be one of the most surreal experience of his life. And his best friend’s father was literally a goblin. 

But, Deadpool was paying, so. Whatever. 

Peter ordered a modest amount of pancakes in comparison to Deadpool’s veritable mountain, and Cable just ordered black coffee. Despite the inherent discomfort of the situation Peter was curious to see what happened when Deadpool ate. Every inch of the mercenary’s body was covered in leather, but Peter had heard rumors about his unusual skin condition. The descriptions ranged from the scientific (like Dr. Banner’s “His body’s cells are continuously killing and regenerating themselves in an effort to fight off the cancer in his organs, leading to an irregular texture and appearance”) to the just plain unkind (like Tony Stark’s “He looks like a deep-fried meatball with eyes. Shit’s terrifying. Gave me nightmares for weeks.”) But, Peter wanted to see for himself. 

Unfortunately, it seemed that Deadpool had mastered the art of getting food into his mouth without actually revealing that he had a physical mouth (which Peter found both ironic and disappointing.) He was flurry of movement and distracting chatter, gesturing wildly in front of his face and turning around repeatedly to pester the only other customers (an older couple eating an early dinner in the corner.) The pile of pancakes was gone before Peter knew what had happened and Deadpool was back up and messing around with the forlorn looking jukebox on the other side of the diner. Peter took advantage of his absence and shifted over to the opposite side of the booth.

“Okay, let’s just,” Peter said to Cable. “Hypothetically, even if I did agree to teach Deadpool the ways of the light side of the force, what is your intended outcome here? I mean, there’s no controlling him. He’s crazy.”

“I’d really prefer it if you didn’t use that word,” Cable replied. He was staring out the window was he said it, but Peter felt the full weight of his disapproval anyway. “And I’m not asking you to control anyone. I believe everyone has the capacity to make good choices,  _ heroic _ choices, with the right guidance and opportunity.”

“With all due respect, sir, that didn’t answer my question.”

“I want you to show him that there are better uses for his many talents than murdering foreign warlords and mob bosses,” Cable turned back to Peter and studied his masked face for a long moment. “You don’t think there are, do you? You don’t think he’s capable of changing.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, though it probably wasn’t visible through the mask. “I thought you couldn’t read minds anymore?”

The corner of Cable’s mouth quirked up. “I can’t. You’re just not as good at concealing your emotions as you are your identity. That, and everyone feels that way about Wade.”

_ Which is fair, based on his entire history of observable behavior. What does this guy know that literally no one else does?  _

“I watched him throw a kid off a bridge the last time we hung out.”

“Only cause I knew his friendly neighborhood Spider-man would save him! Which you did, so I was right,” Deadpool collapsed into the booth next to Cable. The sight of two men that large trying to cram themselves onto the same side of a booth was vaguely hilarious. ”Jukebox here sucks, bee tee double-u. Doesn’t even have  _ Wham! _ How am I supposed to declare my undying love for those beautiful off-brand Bea Arthurs in the corner without George Michael to back me up?”

The older ladies in the corner didn’t seem too broken up about the lack of ambiance vis-a-vis the giant, leather-clad man with the swords declaring love for them. But, Deadpool was already on to the next topic. 

“So, how goes the wooing, buddy?” he asked Cable. “Is Spidey ready to drink the kool-aid?”

Cable’s expression was grim as he shook his head. “Surprisingly, convincing someone to let  _ you _ tag along and try your hand at something other than chaotic neutrality is a tough sell.”

Deadpool slapped his hand down on the formica tabletop so hard the already skittish wait staff retreated into the kitchen with quiet whimpers.

“ _ That’s _ what this is about? You’re trying to pawn me off on an Avenger’s reject? No WONDER the pancakes didn’t work! Were you even planning to tell  _ me _ about this?”

Cable shrugged. “I figured if I managed to get Spider-man on board you would be pretty easy.”

The expression on Deadpool’s mask shifted into something resembling a wink. “I’m always easy for you, babe.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

Cable rolled his eyes. “Hey Wade, wanna go hang out with Spider-man?”

Deadpool straightened immediately. “Fuck yeah I wanna hang out with Spider-man! I lov—Oh, I see what you mean.”

Cable heaved the sigh of an under-appreciated genius and drained the last of his coffee. “Yup.”

“Well, not to be critical, old buddy, but if you want a precious little munchkin like Spider-man to hang out with a dumpster fire of a person like me you’re going about it the wrong way.”

Peter felt a little weird about listening to other people talk about him right in front of him, but he couldn’t deny that the dynamic between the men was fascinating to observe. Cable and Deadpool were two people so far from the norm (even in a world increasingly populated by abnormality) that it seemed improbable that either would be able to form easy, companionable bonds with anyone. And yet, there they were. 

“And what is the right way?”

“Cardinal rule of mercenaries, of course,” Deadpool said, rooting around in his pockets. He produced a wad of cash which he threw down on the table next to the check. It looked to be about $150 more than their meal had actually cost. “If you have an asset that someone else wants you never give it up for free. That’s also the cardinal rule of hookers, incidentally, but that’s not important right now, unless this deal is about to get a lot more interesting.”

Something must have clicked in Cable’s head because he turned to Peter and started saying things like “generously compensated,” “trial period,” and “contact Irene immediately,” but Peter couldn’t take his eyes off the $100 bill Deadpool had tossed down without a care. When was the last time Peter had bought food that wasn’t ramen or boxed mac-n-cheese? The idea of real income tied to his vigilante work made his head spin.

“So, what do you say, Spider-man?”

Cable’s question brought Peter’s attention back to the matter at hand. 

_ You’re going to hate yourself for this. _

Peter nodded. “Yeah. I’ll do it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, kids. How are we all feeling? Ready for a POV shift? Good. This chapter introduces Wade and his boxes. For reference, the White Box will be underlined and the Yellow Box will be bolded. I hope it doesn't get too confusing!

Wade was so excited he couldn’t sleep. Or, rather, the boxes were so excited that he couldn’t sleep, which is how things usually went. The boxes kept up a constant stream of chatter all night while Wade watched infomercials in the dark. Technically, tonight was no different, except that instead of the usual laundry list of  Wade’s faults and the relationships he’d destroyed over the years, the boxes were expounding on the many virtues of Cable and his bizarre act of generosity. Or, well, the white box was. 

Didn’t I tell you he was our friend? You guys got all weird about him absorbing us that one time, but I told you it would pay off, didn’t I? And now look: he got us an all-access pass to Spider-man!

**You mean he bribed Spider-man into babysitting us.**

“I’m pretty sure babysitters get paid already. That’s not bribery, it’s just a job,” Wade interjected as he watched a woman demonstrate an appliance that allowed her to juice an entire onion. He wasn’t sure why anyone would want to juice an onion, but he kind of wanted to try it anyway. 

**Who asked you? You’re the one who’s going to fuck this all up for the rest of us somehow.**

Wade wanted to mention to yellow that  _ he _ was also the one who allowed them to take up space in his head rent-free, but it didn’t seem very productive. 

Who cares! We fuck up all the time anyway. At least we get to hang out with Spider-man while we do it .

**I’m sure he’ll be thrilled about that, seeing as he loves us so much already.**

The boxes didn’t have eyes, but Yellow was rolling theirs anyway. Yellow could be mean, but Wade rarely knew how to argue with them.

**Of course you don’t, dumbass. I’m a fragment of your consciousness.**

Hush, you two, I’m trying to imagine what it will be like to fly around New York with Spider-Man .  Do you think he could lift us? I’ll bet he could. He’s as strong as a spider.

“Proportionate strength of a spider,” Wade muttered, remembering the last time he’d met the superhero after throwing that kid Peter off the Brooklyn Bridge. Spider-man…had not been happy with him that day. But, Wade was used to that. A lot of people, especially the spangly, spandex types, didn’t care for Wade’s methods or his ethics or…anything else about his existence, really. But, when SHIELD had a special kind of problem which required a morally-ambiguous individual with a special set of skills, guess who they called? Good old Uncle Sam had done more than his fair share to keep Wade Wilson in leather and bullets over the years. So, Wade may have been a human melanoma, but at least he wasn’t delusional. 

**Debatable.**

At least, not about what it meant to be a “hero” in this day and age. 

**That’s better.**

So, maybe Cable’s intentions were good or maybe he was just meddling where he didn’t belong (like always.) But, hey, Spider-man was cute and noble. You didn’t get that with most of Wade’s usual companions. 

And the ass on that boy. God I hope he’s legal.

At least they could all agree with that sentiment. 

As long as the white box was fully committed to filling the rest of the night with a rousing rendition of “Breaking Free” from High School Musical with Deadpool and Spider-man inserted in the place of Troy and Gabriella, Wade figured he might as well get up and get ready. There were only so many infomercials a man could watch before he tried to re-wire his cable box into a bomb (at least in Wade’s experience. It was possible that he wasn’t getting his deposit back for this apartment.) So, Wade dug through his closet (read: refrigerator box with a bar stuck through the top) in search of a fresh suit. Or at least one where all the blood on it was his. Luckily he had one with no bullet holes or mysterious stains. He made a mental note to take the others out to the alley behind the building and hose them down, which he promptly forgot. It was a little early to be getting all dressed up, since he wasn’t due to meet up with Spidey until sunset and the sun was only now coming up, but getting into a full body leather suit was more difficult that most people thought. Wade went through an unreasonable amount of lube for someone with a borderline non-existent sex life. But, squeeze in he did. Then, with his katanas in place and two smaller-caliber handguns strapped to his thighs all that was left to do was wait. 

*****

The fact that Deadpool arrived exactly on time annoyed Peter. He had hoped a man who made his living killing and stealing would have all the other negative qualities as well, perpetual lateness among them. After all, Peter had a job to do and he couldn’t wait around all night for his protege to show up. If Deadpool had been late and Peter was already gone, well, at least he would have a good excuse to give Cable for leaving him behind. 

But, no such luck. Deadpool appeared at the top of the fire escape at 8:15 pm on the dot, all dressed up and ready to go. 

“Hiya, Spidey!” Deadpool sprang up. Everything about him seemed very springy, in fact. The enthusiasm rolled off him in waves. It was going to be a long night. 

“Hello, Deadpool,” Peter intoned, noting with some dismay that his companion was still strapped to the gills with firepower. Not a good start. “You look a little overdressed.” Peter gestured to the guns hanging off of Deadpool’s thighs. Deadpool drew one out and examined it. 

“You think? I toned it down just for you, you know. Didn’t want you to think I was compensating for anything.” 

“The entire point of this is to get you to  _ stop _ killing people. Why would you need guns in the first place?” Peter could feel his blood pressure climbing and they weren’t even off the roof yet. 

Deadpool cocked his head, an oddly innocent gesture for someone holding a beretta like a baby. “What makes you think I need a gun to kill someone?”

And Peter…well Peter didn’t have a response to that, actually. Deadpool was a great red and black wall of a man with arms the size of Peter’s thighs. Peter knew he was technically stronger, but there was no doubt in his mind that Deadpool could do some serious damage with his bare hands if need be. But, still. It was the principle of the thing. 

“No one  _ needs _ a gun to kill someone but the fact remains that having one makes it a whole lot easier,” Peter knew this first-hand. He could never un-know what it felt like to watch a bullet tear through someone he loved. 

Deadpool chuckled and slipped the gun back into the holster, flipping it around in the air a few times like a Wild West cowboy first. Peter was steadfastly not impressed. 

“Your soapbox is adorable baby boy. Really brings out the blue in your uniform,” Deadpool said. “But you know what they say about old habits. Besides,” he sauntered a few steps closer. “Everybody loves a bad boy.”

Peter snorted. “No they don’t.”

Deadpool managed to look affronted through the mask. “Explain Han Solo’s popularity then!”

Peter snorted again. Surely Deadpool didn’t imagine himself as Han Solo’s equal in terms of charm and swagger. But, then again, given his twisted thought process, maybe he did. 

“He was played by Harrison Ford. Pretty sure that helped.”

“Oh, please. Like little baby Spidey didn’t fantasize about being swept off on adventures by a handsome, trigger-happy rouge,” Deadpool’s tone was teasing and Peter recognized that he was trying to get some kind of sputtering, no-homo rise out of him. In addition to a reputation for danger and mental instability, Deadpool was also famously pansexual and delighted in undermining traditional superhero machismo whenever he could. Peter considered himself above meathead culture, due to spending most of his life as the victim of said culture. But, he was too used to pulling witty quips out of thin air and his response slipped out before he could stop himself.

“I happen to like nice men.”

Too late, Peter realized that he’d just revealed way more about himself than a childhood Star Wars obsession. Panic flared up inside him, but there was no taking it back now. The eye holes in Deadpool’s mask widened in surprise and--if the grin stretching the bottom of the mask was any indication--delight. 

“Spidey,” he drawled. “Do you swing both ways?”

All at once Peter realized how annoying his stream of puns must be to all his enemies. No wonder they all hated him so much,  _ Jesus _ . Peter wanted to punch something. More than that he wanted to run far away so he would never have to see Deadpool’s smug, stupid mask/face ever again. 

Luckily, a scream rang out in the distance, saving Peter from having to respond (and did he really just say “luckily?” Was he thinking of cries of distress as a good thing now? Fucking Deadpool.) Peter flexed his wrists, pointing the web shooters at the nearest building. 

“Time to go to work,” he said, preparing to swing. 

“Wait!” Deadpool exclaimed. “Not all of us have magical silly string to help us fly from place to place.”

Peter considered the predicament for a moment, then shrugged. “Sounds a lot like your problem, dude. You wanna be a hero? Here’s your first lesson: try to keep up.”

And with that, Spider-man sailed off into the night. 

*****

Spider-man cut through the sunset sky, elegant and powerful like a…something elegant and powerful ( **Like a spider, maybe?** ) Whatever. Wade wasn’t a poet. All he knew is that his pulse was fluttering and he watched his new mentor leap from building to building towards the sound of a scuffle in the near distance. 

“Spider-man likes boys,” he whispered. 

Spider-man likes boys . The White box confirmed. Little animated hearts popped up in the corners of Wade’s vision and for once he didn’t mind the obvious hallucination invading his reality. Spider-man had just admitting to liking men. Nice men, granted, which was a category Wade decidedly did not belong to. But, still. This partnership had just officially become interesting. 

**Are we going to go after him or are we just going to stand here composing love songs all night?**

Wade surveyed his surroundings. The buildings were relatively close here and the rooftops around the same height. A normal person would never have been able to clear the gap between them. But, hey, no one had ever accused Deadpool of being normal. The worst he could do was fall. Wade shrugged, made sure all his weapons were securely attached, got a running start, and leapt.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of child abuse

True to Peter’s predictions, the heat wave had brought a wave of petty crime with it. Something about the combination of no school and New York apartments being largely without air conditioning brought out the worst in Peter’s city. Not that stupid kids with reckless ideas of fun had anything on the Norman Osborns of the world, but Peter still got tired of chasing down purse snatchers. 

“Seriously, guys, did you really think this was gonna work?” Peter called to the semi-circle of teenage boys that had cornered a gray-haired old lady in an alley and were brandishing laughably tiny pocket knives in her direction. “What, are you new around here or something?”

The boys looked up at Peter, startled at his sudden appearance. It was apparent from the nervous glances the five of them exchanged that they hadn’t thought about what they would do if they got caught. Dumb kids then. Probably more bored than malicious. Peter would go easy on them. He dropped down from his perch on a nearby fire escape and held his hands out to the boys in a placating gesture. Peter wasn’t tall, but he had a good four inches on these hooligans. They really were fresh out of puberty.

“Okay, gentlemen I’m going to give you a pass this time. Give this nice lady back her purse, hand over the knives, and I’ll let you go. You can still walk away from this.”

More nervous glances passed throughout the group. One boy--the Alpha, Peter thought, solely because he had about half an inch and three strands of facial hair on the other boys--looked between Peter’s outstretched hands and the purse he clutched in his own. Sweat rolled down the kid’s face. 

“You ain’t gonna call the cops?” the boy asked. His voice cracked around the last word. 

Peter shook his head. “Not unless I have to. But I really don’t think it has to come to that. I mean, you guys are smart. You know this isn’t worth it, right?”

A few of the boys shuffled sheepishly, looking at the ground. One of the boys’ shoes were threaded with red and blue laces the same color as the Spider-man suit. Peter couldn’t help but smile.

“What do you say, guys? Give the lady back her purse, hand over the knives, and we can all pretend this never happened.”

Alpha Boy sucked in a shaky breath and nodded. He turned back to the old woman. 

“We’re sorry we sto—”

“SUPERHERO LANDING!”

Peter felt Deadpool’s arrival a half second before he saw it. He scrambled forward just in time to yank two of the boys away from being crushed by a million pounds of falling mercenary. Deadpool crashed to the ground with a sickening crunch. Horror lurched in Peter’s stomach before he realized the only broken bones were Deadpool’s. 

“Yup, still hard on the knees,” Deadpool noted, examining the shard of kneecap that had poked its way out through the suit on impact. The old woman gasped once again and several of the boys gagged. But Deadpool just shoved the bone back into place and stood up, leaning somewhat onto his non-injured leg. As a show of dominance it was incredibly impressive. Nearly as impressive as it was unnecessary.

“So what are we doing?” Deadpool asked casually. “Robbing old ladies? You know, some might call that cliche. But I say the classics never go out of style.” Deadpool produced a switch blade from somewhere on his person that made the kids’ boy-scout models look like butter knives. In the growing darkness of the alley the sleek, shiny blade seemed to glow as Deadpool flicked it casually between his fingers. Slowly, Peter shifted his body to stand between Deadpool and the two boys he’d grabbed. 

“Deadpool,” he said, trying to convey a warning without alarming anyone else in the alley. But Deadpool either didn’t get the message or was choosing to ignore it, because he pressed forward, circling the remaining boys like a shark. Three pairs of eyes were glued to the flashing blade. The old woman’s eyes were squeezed shut and she appeared to be silently mouthing a prayer. 

“Me? I’m a big fan of the classics. Like, hey, did you know that back in the good old days you could cut off someone’s hand for stealing? It’s true. I read about it on the internet,” he paused in front of Alpha Boy (who didn’t look so Alpha any more), holding the blade at the kid’s eye level for his consideration. “What do you think, tough guy? Should we bring that back?”

The kid’s eyes were as big as saucers and he was shaking from head to toe.

“N-no, sir,” he stuttered. “P-please we didn’t mean anything b-”

“Didn’t you?” all at once, Alpha Boy was shoved up against the alley wall, pinned by the weight of Deadpool’s massive hand on his chest, tip of the switch blade pressed against the wrist just below the hand that still clutched the purse. “You just thought it might be fun to terrorize this vision of a lady? That’s your idea of a good time? You wanted to kick-start your lifetime record of violence against women you delinquent piece of—”

“Deadpool!” Peter leapt forward, pushing the two other boys back and shooting a stream of webbing forward, skillfully yanking the switch blade out of Deadpool’s grasp. It came away easily. Peter snapped it shut and tossed it into a dumpster several yards away. Deadpool had the audacity to let out an offended “Hey!”

“Let him go,” Peter demanded, shifting his weight into a fighting stance to let Deadpool know that he wasn’t fucking around right now. 

“He’s a criminal, Spidey!”

“He’s a kid,  _ Wilson _ .”

Deadpool sighed dramatically, as if Peter were being wildly unreasonable. He dropped Alpha Boy and the purse tumbled to the ground. Alpha Boy stumbled to his feet and took off running towards the street. All the other boys followed him out, relief apparent. Deadpool presented the purse to the terrified woman, who accepted it, but held it like gingerly, as if Deadpool had rigged it to explode somehow. 

“You’re a goddess among women, ma’am,” Deadpool said, like he hadn’t just threatened to mutilate a teenager right in front of her. “I don’t know if you’ve got a husband, but if he kicks it one of these days, my name is Wade and my swords aren’t the only things that are—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” 

Peter had had enough. He webbed Deadpool’s mouth shut then yanked the other man to his side in a parody of an embrace and used webbing to pull both of them back up to the rooftops. He deposited Deadpool roughly onto the top of another building in a quieter area without so much foot traffic, slightly satisfied when the larger man was sent sprawling to his hands and knees.  

Peter stood over the prone Deadpool.

“You and I are gonna have a little chat.”

*****

Wade was aware that Spider-man was probably unhappy with him. In fact, he was almost 97% sure of it. Spidey was moving like a predator, looming over Wade, the air around him practically sizzling, tense as a bowstring. 

So, yeah. Probably not happy. 

But, passion was passion was passion and Wade had a bit of a thing about being thrown around like a rag doll, which, who even knew where that came from?

**Traumatic childhood, probably.**

Or Cable.

“That was rhetorical,” Wade muttered.

“Excuse me?” Spider-man spat. 

“Nothing, dear,” Wade called, turning to face Spider-man, but not bothering to stand. Spidey might just shove him back down again. He seemed to be in a very shovey mood. Besides, Wade was enjoying being the smaller one for a change. “But, you’re right, open communication is very important to the health of any relationship. For example, I’m pretty open-minded, but, honestly, I don’t really get the furry thing. So if your dream is to be nailed by Tony the Tiger or, like, the fox from Robin Hood or some shit then—”

“Shut up!” Spidey bellowed, his voice echoing between the buildings. 

I guess he wanted to share first .

“Jesus Christ, do you have any idea what you just did?” Spider-man paced, dragging his hands over his mask-clad face. Wade wondered briefly if he was about to be thrown off the building, but he wasn’t concerned enough to not answer the (probably rhetorical) question. 

“I thought I was thwarting a robbery,” he said.

Spider-man let out a strangled sound and clawed at his own face. Apparently that was the wrong answer. 

“By pulling a knife on a kid?” he demanded.

“I thought we were doing a good cop/bad cop thing!”

Spider-man didn’t seem to like that answer either. 

“Bad cop? You call threatening to hack a 13-year-old’s hand off ‘bad cop?’” 

Wade didn’t think Spider-man’s outrage was entirely fair. 

“I wouldn’t have actually done it. And anyway, they still got off easier than they would have with the actual police. They’re all ‘shoot first ask questions never’ nowadays. At least I didn’t do that.”

“That isn’t the  _ point _ , you—” Spider-man paused his rant and sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, like an overzealous yoga instructor ( Spidey doing yoga. There’s something I’d pay to see. ) When he spoke again his voice was lower, more sinister. “Deadpool, the entire point of this…thing I do is to solve problems non-violently. I get there before anyone gets hurt. That’s the gig. So either you get on board with that or you get the fuck out of my city.”

Um. Did he not see us not eviscerate that little punk just now? Cause we didn’t even break the fucker’s skin !

“I’m not sure what show you were watching, but I didn’t hurt anyone. Go find that kid, I guarantee there’s not a mark on him.”

“Maybe not a  _ physical _ mark, but—”

Wade was perplexed. What was that supposed to mean, ‘not a physical mark’? That was the job, wasn’t it? Stop crime, don’t kill anyone, ride off into the sunset with a certain arachnid-themed hero. He’d executed the first two objectives perfectly (and in his opinion, with a certain amount of flair and creativity) but now Spider-man was yelling at him. No one was dead. He hadn’t even pulled his gun! What more did this tree-hugger want from him?

Wade’s confusion must have shown on his face because Spider-man stopped pacing and gaped. “Oh my god. Are you so fucked up that you don’t think scaring the shit out of a child hurts them?”

No, that was one lesson Wade had learned, thanks. But he wasn’t about to weep over Daddy issues with Spider-man of all people. Instead, he pushed himself up to his feet. If Spidey wanted a fight, a fight he would get. 

“Oh, I’m all kinds of fucked up, Baby Boy. But here’s my question: are you so naive that you think letting fucking juvenile delinquents walk away without so much as a slap on the wrist is really gonna convince them to go forth and sin no more? You think a nice warm hug from your wrist jizz is gonna set ‘em straight? Look around, Spidey, there’s crime around here for a reason and it isn’t because some jackass in tights hasn’t swung by to sing kum-by-yah yet.”

In terms of “dumb things Wade had said in the past five minutes that Spider-man didn’t like,” this one was probably the winner. The other man’s posture tensed and he swung back towards Wade, stalking rather than stomping. Wade remembered belatedly that Spider-man was younger (probably) and smaller, but undoubtedly stronger. It wasn’t an entirely unwelcome reminder, if White’s rapt attention to the flexing in Spider-man’s thigh muscles was any indication. 

**I hope the boner is worth it cause we’re about to get our spine inverted.**

Lmao. Die Hard .

“First of all, don’t talk to me like I’m a child. This is  _ my _ neighborhood,  _ my _ home. If you have a problem with the way I do things, you are more than welcome to leave. Second of all, if you’d actually  _ listened _ to what I was saying to those kids maybe you would understand. If you would stop to talk to people before pulling a weapon on them then  _ maybe _ —”

“Talk?” Wade burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, but that’s adorable. Tell me something: what happens when the mean old armed robber decides he isn’t interested in any psychobabble today? What if he’s,” Wade gestured towards himself, “Crazy?”

“Then I restrain him,” Spider-man bit out, arms crossed tightly like he was restraining himself.

“And if they’re too strong or too fast?” Wade asked, sensing that he might be inching dangerously close to a precipice, but unable to stop himself. If this was to be his only day of hero training, he wanted the full experience. 

Spider-man sputtered for a moment. “Well, I…If I absolutely have to then I…”

“You hurt them?” Wade finished. He could hear Spider-man’s jaw click shut. They were standing awfully close now. 

“Yes.” It sounded like Spider-man was gritting his teeth. “If I must.”

“With what, Spider-man?” Wade asked softly, pleased to see the other man twitch uncomfortably at the intimacy in his tone. “With your  _ super-human strength?” _ Feeling the fleeting possibilities of the nighttime rooftop, Wade reached forward and dragged the back of his gloved hand slowly up Spidey’s tightly-clenched bicep. “You forget that I’ve seen you in action, hero. You look too beautiful while you’re beating the shit out of someone not to be getting  _ some _ pleasure out of it.” 

Spider-man let out a whoosh of breath and all of the sudden Wade was flat on his face on the roof, the arm that had been stroking Spidey’s arm twisted painfully and pinned behind his back. 

“You’re sick,” Spider-man hissed directly into his ear. Which. Um. Yeah. “And I’m done with you. Tell Cable he can find you a different babysitter. I work better alone.”

With one last shove, just to make sure the rooftop grit worked its way into all the nooks and crannies of Wade’s suit, Spider-man’s weight was gone. And, really, wasn’t this how Wade knew he would end up? Of course this arc ended in Spidey walking away from him in disgust. Wade wondered if he should just spend his next few lifetimes lying here face down in the dirt. But, before he could figure out whether it was even possible for him to die of exposure, his thought process (such as it was) was interrupted by an earth-shaking BOOM and the thump of Spider-man being thrown to the ground next to him. The world was enveloped in a startlingly familiar cloud of dust. 

**No, not again. This wasn’t supposed to happen here.**

The sounds of Spider-man coughing dragged Wade back into the moment. Once his vision cleared enough to make out the red and blue form next to him, Wade reached out to drag Spidey as far in the opposite direction of the blast as the rooftop would allow.

“What was that?” Spider-man gasped.

“Short range missile,” Wade croaked back. “Stolen military most likely. Unless you can think of some reason the US Government would be declaring war on an apartment complex in Queens?”

Spider-man didn’t reply. He just stared off in the direction of the explosion. It occurred to Wade that this therapist to criminals petty and non-violent had no idea what to do in this situation. And maybe it would be opportunistic to use his superior knowledge of weaponry to buy himself more time by Spider-man’s side. But, hey, Wade was a mercenary.

“So,” he said. “Still think you can handle this all by yourself?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author shows how little they know about military technology. Prepare to suspend disbelief. Thank you guys for all your support so far! :)

Peter wasn’t sure how this had happened. In fact, he was considering that as the name of the memoir he would probably never write; Not Sure How This Happened: The Peter Parker Story. This chapter would be titled “Peter and Deadpool investigate an explosion. No, I don’t think this will end well either.” And oh boy was it ever not going to end well. If Peter had been thinking clearly he would never have agreed to team up with Deadpool _again_. Maybe a few neurons had been knocked loose during the blast. Or maybe he really didn’t know how to investigate an act of terrorism on his own.

Either way, Spider-man was a well-established presence in the area. It was difficult to imagine that the explosion wasn’t intended to get his attention. And he didn’t even know if there were any casualties yet. Deadpool had dragged him from the scene before he’d had a chance to check, muttering something about “laying low, you masochist. They’re going to realize they missed,” with disconcerting seriousness.

Nothing in Peter wanted to leave before he knew whether or not someone was hurt. But, his vision was swimming and at least one of his shoulders felt dislocated. So, he let Deadpool lead him away. Somehow that turned into Deadpool asking him what he planned to do next and, _hey, I mean, if you want, I know this guy who’s got a thing for weapons. If you want I could give him a call? What do you think, Spidey? Spidey? Hey, hey, how many fingers am I holding up? Spidey? Spid-oh, shit._ And then things went dark. He woke up later in the back of a stolen Edible Arrangements delivery van with a throbbing headache and a sheepishly concerned mercenary who had taken it upon himself to call his weapon’s-expert friend anyway. At that point Peter was so tired that he just went along with it.

So, that’s how he ended up in the dimly-lit apartment of a man with the confidence-inspiring name of Weasel. Peter could practically hear Uncle Ben screaming at him from Heaven: “What did I teach you, Peter? Look both ways before you cross the street and never follow a man with a rodent-themed nickname to a second location! You better hope your aunt doesn’t find out about this or she’ll kill you herself if these two don’t manage it.” Which was probably true, but it wasn’t like the newly-minted investigative team of Spider-man & Deadpool— or, “Spideypool” as Deadpool had dubbed them (”Spideypool? Really? That’s the best you’ve got?” “Well it was that or ‘Dead-man’ and, listen, I’m a morbid guy, but that’s a little dark, even for me.”)—had any other leads.

Well, it had been a weapon of some kind, obviously. But even Deadpool wanted his theories confirmed and he knew more about big explosions than Peter did. Hence, Weasel. And Peter wasn’t exactly thrilled to be following Deadpool’s lead, but the science geek in him (So, like 90% of his personality) was kind of obsessed with Weasel’s set up. The whole east-facing wall of the apartment was covered in computer monitors and it was obvious that the man had dedicated his life to treating high-profile government databases like a playground. And his makeshift weapons workshop, while concerning in the hands of a private citizen, gave Stark’s a run for its money. Peter was impressed.

He was, however, less crazy about the way Weasel was staring at him with stars in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, I just—are you really Spider-man?” the weedy little man asked.

“Um, yes?” Peter replied. Conversations like this generally ended in drunken marriage proposals or with Peter getting punched in the face. He didn’t know which he dreaded more at this point.

“Is it true that you made your web-shooters yourself? Dude, we’ve got to get together sometime and—”

“Weasel! Stop flirting with my partner!” Deadpool had gotten pretty into the detective aesthetic. He’d produced a trench coat, deerstalker cap, and comically-over-sized magnifying glass from God-only-knew where, though he was mostly just using the magnifying glass to inspect the rack on Miss. June in Weasel’s pin-up calendar. “We have serious business to attend to!”

Weasel looked about as skeptical as Peter felt about Deadpool’s ability to be serious, but he swiveled back to his wall-o-monitors and pulled up a few live news feeds.

“No one has publicly claimed responsibility for the attack yet, which isn’t surprising, since no one died. Terrorist cells don’t generally waste their resources on empty buildings,” Weasel explained.

Peter frowned and leaned forward to get a closer look at the screen nearest him. It showed footage of emergency personnel milling around in the rubble at a loss for what to do. There weren’t even any fires to put out. The building had gone down cleanly and seamlessly.

“It was empty?” he repeated.

“The whole block was,” Weasel confirmed, pulling up a blueprint of the street on another screen. “The Health Department condemned that block of apartments six months ago, but they weren’t set to be demolished for another six weeks according to the city’s records. My guess is that the official report of the explosion is going to say that the building was being prepped for demo and someone pressed the ‘go’ button too early.”

Peter surveyed the footage of the scene again. It was just so _clean_. Homemade bombs were messy. This looked professional.

“Are we sure that’s not what happened?” Peter asked.

“We aren’t,” Deadpool answered this time. “But think about it, Spidey. These buildings have been empty for months and were supposed to be empty for two more, but one just happened to go boom on the day and time that Spider-man lands on the roof next door? Feels awfully convenient, doesn’t it?”

It did.

Peter sighed. “Okay. What do we know about the explosives?”

Weasel grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.” He pulled up yet another screen, this one full of strings of data Peter wasn’t trained to understand. “There were no safeguards in place to protect surrounding buildings from flying debris, which there wouldn’t necessarily have to be if this really was an accidental detonation. But,” Weasel pointed to the screen of nonsense data. “This is a read-out of radio signals in and out of Queens for the past week. And this,” he hit a few buttons until the images on the screen shifted to show a frequency graph. “Here are the readings for the blast area. Nothing more than background noise for a week and then suddenly…”

The graph spiked upwards at 8:43 pm that night. Peter did the math. That was about ten minutes before the explosion, give or take.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Peter said. “It was almost nine when the building went down. Shouldn’t the signal  have only originated a few seconds before?”

“If that,” Weasel’s fingers flew over the keyboard yet again. On another screen an aerial  map of the neighborhood came up, timestamped 8:40 pm. A glowing green dot appeared at the top corner at 8:43 and then began to move across the screen, first to the west then meandering towards the south until it ultimately terminated near the center, where the destroyed building had formerly stood.

“No way,” Deadpool breathed. “They went through all that and they _missed_? Amateurs.”

Peter frowned. “So it’s a guided missile?”

“An incredibly _precise_ guided missile. It did exactly one building’s worth of damage,” Weasel gestured back to the news feed, which now showed workers loading chunks of rubble into dump trucks. “Aside from the noise and some dust there was no damage to surrounding buildings. They might’ve scared some pigeons and thrown you two around, but that’s about it.”

“I’m guessing the average detonation company doesn’t have access to that kind of technology?” Peter asked.

“No one has access to this kind of technology!” Deadpool exclaimed, gesticulating so wildly that he whacked Weasel in the back of the head with the magnifying glass. “American drones are Hulk-smashing their way through Pakistan and some elegant recluse is trying to seduce me in Queens? Where have you been all my life you beautiful bastard?” He crouched forward to examine the map of radio frequencies that Weasel had set to play on a loop.

“Weasel, buddy, who else do you think has access to this info right now?”

Weasel snorted, looking offended. “Assuming the call isn’t coming from inside the house, SHIELD analysts won’t have this for another six hours. Only you two were close enough to be immediately suspicious.”

“Do you have any idea who’s behind this?” Peter asked, suddenly antsy. This wasn’t the first time someone very intelligent had had it out for him. But, he always knew who they were and what they were capable of, roughly. He didn’t like the idea of invisible eyes watching him in his own backyard. Especially not invisible eyes with missiles they could fly like toy helicopters.

Weasel shrugged. “It could be anyone. Whoever they are, they’re well-connected enough to hide under the cover of New York City construction contracts.”

Peter flipped through his mental Rolodex of baddies, but came up empty. No one had publicly called out Spider-man in a while. He’d been stupid to assume that meant nothing was coming. He sighed. At least he knew where to start. He turned his attention back to the map.

“Give me the address for the origin of that signal. I want to take a look around before anyone else sees through the media’s story,” he said.

Weasel did more computer magic and produced an address about a mile from the explosion site. The area looked to be just as abandoned as the apartments were, but you could never tell from the outside. Not all super-villains had Oscorp’s affinity for advertising. Peter committed the address to memory then turned away from Weasel’s wall of screens, trying to find a window that would allow for an easy exit.

“Thanks for all your help, Weasel.”

_Yet another classic memoir chapter title._

He noticed a window partially blocked by a cardboard cutout of Princess Leia posing with a blaster, which captured Weasel pretty completely, Peter thought. He respectfully moved Leia aside and jimmied the window open. But when he turned back to say his goodbye formally (more of Aunt May’s training rearing it’s ugly head), Deadpool was standing a few feet away, wavering. He seemed to be toying with the idea of saying something, but he wasn’t sure whether or not he was allowed, which was strange given that he hadn’t had any problem just saying whatever the hell he wanted up to this point.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Spit it out, Wade, I don’t have all night.”

Deadpool’s head snapped up. “Oh,” he said. “You—oh. Um. Well, I was just. I mean, if you wanted I could, like, if you needed backup or someone to, you know, whatever. I could…” his voice trailed off, the way it sometimes did, like he’d been interrupted by someone no one else could hear.

“Are you asking if you can come?” Peter asked, not willing to wait for Deadpool’s mental argument to resolve itself.

Deadpool nodded meekly. Or, as meekly as a giant dressed in leather can nod. And maybe Peter was still concussed from being thrown by the blast. Or maybe he was blinded by relief that for the first time in a long time someone had offered to help him, even if that someone was deranged. All Peter knew was he had a long night ahead of him and he was so fucking tired of always fighting alone. So for the second time in two days Peter turned off his better judgment and said “yes.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cracks knuckles* Cameo time.

All appearances to the contrary, Wade Wilson knew about silence. His childhood had been a quiet affair for the most part, punctuated by the progressively-slowing beeping of his mother’s heart monitor, his father’s subsequent unpredictable rage, and finally, the gunshot that ended it. Then came long hours spent crouching in the dirt half a world away waiting for some “enemy of Truth, Freedom, and the American Way” to stumble into his sights. Plenty of people believed Wade had earned his dishonorable discharge, but no one had ever asked him what 41 confirmed kills felt like when you were alone in the dark (like a disease, like a cancer eating away at Wade’s humanity until it was mottled and rotten long before the rest of him.) 

Over the years, Wade become intimately acquainted with the variety of anonymity the world had to offer. He’d lain in wait between skyscrapers in Tokyo, in the rain forests in Cambodia, in the gray slums of Eastern Europe. Wade Wilson knew about silence.

Ironically, it was the white peaks of Canada that scooped out his capacity for stillness and replaced it with agony. A screaming that would never stop no matter how many times he used himself for target practice. Someone looking for an easily-marketable tagline had dubbed him “The Merc with a Mouth,” but Wade talked so much because he knew what was hiding in the silence. More often than not, it was him. And he was the worst thing he could think of. 

So, when Spider-man suggested that he take the lookout post outside the Bad Guy HQ, Wade knew that if nothing else, Spidey was taking his reputation seriously. Though New York really took the whole “city that never sleeps” thing as, like, an order, the area Weasel had pointed them toward was genuinely deserted. (”An abandoned warehouse? What, did the author-person just watch Daredevil or something? Does this mean I get to stick a screwdriver into someone’s foot?” “No, Wade, what are you—? No. Why would you ever need to do that?” “Oh, Spidey-pants, you adorable ingenue.”) Spider-man was careful to move them through the neighborhood as inconspicuously as possible to avoid alerting whatever mysterious force was afoot around here to their presence. On the plus side, this meant a lot of time spent clinging tightly to Spidey’s well-defined form Princess Leia style. Unfortunately, it also meant that Wade had to keep the squealing and maidenly fainting to a minimum. Spider-man deposited them gently on the building across the street from the target, immediately putting distance between himself and Wade. Wade savored the loss of contact if only because it meant there  _ had _ been contact. 

Spider-man likes boys . White reminded him in a whisper.  

**Nice boys.** Yellow reminded him in a much louder tone. Wade wasn’t sure how the boxes modulated their volume like that, but Spider-man was speaking to him conspiratorially, so this was not the best time to try to figure that out. 

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Spidey whispered. “I’m going to try to find a way in there,” he pointed to the warehouse. “And I need you to stay out here and be lookout, okay? Make sure no one follows me in.”

“And if someone tries?” Wade asked.

“Then you stop them,” Spidey replied. “Non-lethally!” he clarified when Wade perked up.

As if Wade hadn’t picked up on the theme of their partnership yet. He assured Spidey that he was up to the task. Spidey silently slunk off into the night, slipping between buildings and scuttling up the walls to a narrow window near the roof that was open just a crack. He disappeared through the narrow opening and for a long moment Wade was left in silence once more. 

Any detective or mercenary will tell you that the worst part of any stakeout is the waiting. Even the most sedate of private eyes needed to stretch their legs after a while. So, when two figures emerged from a side door of the dark warehouse, that’s what Wade decided to do: stretch his legs.

Arterial health is very important. Spidey can’t get mad at us for that.

Wade drew a knife from his left boot (having lost his right-boot knife to the dumpster earlier) and dropped down the side of the building. This time his ankle shattered on impact, but as with the knee earlier he just shoved the bones back into place as best he could and hobbled along the wall until he was within earshot of the two shady figures. Spidey wouldn’t like it if he were to…incapacitate them before finding out if they were a threat or not. But, Wade kept the knife at the ready as he listened. 

“I’m telling you, I heard something,” one of the figures insisted. None of the street lamps in the area were on, so Wade couldn’t tell much more about the figures other than vague, oddly similar outlines. Both people were tallish, potential males (though there was no way to verify that without asking) wearing skull caps, goggles, and— Wade grinned—guns at their hips. White and Yellow were workshopping “but it was self-defense!!!1” excuses already.

“For fucks sake, Bob, you always think you’ve heard something,” the other figure grumbled, not joining their companion in frantically searching the alley. 

“But I really did!” “Bob” said, sifting through a stack of cardboard boxes leaning against the wall. “It sounded like there was something in this alley. I swear I heard the window creak.”

The other figure groaned. “And there’s no way it could have been the wind, of course. No, it’s always the end of the world with you.” 

“Bob” sounded a little hurt when he replied. “Would it kill you to trust me, Dennis?” 

“Trust you? The reason I’m digging through the trash instead of inside at the strategy meeting right now is because I trusted you earlier. ‘Don’t worry, Dennis, I know how to pilot the missile!’ And look what fucking happened! You hit the wrong building and now that red-masked freak knows we’re out here. And he’s probably pissed! Do you remember what happens when he gets pissed? It’s a miracle they didn’t just execute us instead of just putting us on look-out duty.”

**What a handy piece of exposition.**

“It’s almost like the writer did it on purpose, just for my benefit,” Wade said, not bothering to be quiet any longer. It was business time. 

Bob and Dennis spun towards Wade. 

“Who’s there?” Bob called, his voice shaking an awful lot for a person who had just been proven right. Dennis didn’t say anything, but he was already gripping his gun. 

“The specter of your past mistakes, apparently,” Wade replied conversationally as he stepped out from under the shadow of the building. “But I go by Deadpool.” 

Now both were silent, Bob scrambling for his gun as well. His hands shook too much for him to aim properly. Adorable.

“Hey, do you guys like games?” Wade asked. No response. “I’m serious. We should play a game. It goes like this: how many bullets can you two waste on me before I stop having any qualms about slitting your throats?” Wade tossed the knife into the air, watching it catch the meager light and throw it back in the be-goggled figures’ direction. It was a very shiny knife. Wade was very proud of it. Bob openly whimpered, but Dennis wasn’t as impressed. 

“Where is your partner?” Dennis demanded. “Where’s the man you were with on the roof?”

“See, now those are two different questions,” Wade replied, catching his knife with ease. “Spidey and I are buds, for sure, but we don’t have half the Honeymooners energy you two do. But hope springs eternal, right? Hey, tell me something, what does it mean when a guy says he never wants to see you again? Think I’ve still got a chance?”

The men gaped at Wade, dumbstruck. Or, Wade imagined them to be dumbstruck. What with the goggles and the oppressive darkness, it was difficult to make out facial expressions. Wade flicked his knife up into the air one more time. 

“I’m going to take your lack of response as a resounding ‘yes,’” he informed them. Then he let the blade fly in Dennis’ direction. 

The knife struck Dennis squarely in the center of his forehead, handle-side first. The impact sent Dennis staggering backwards. He tripped over one of the boxes Bob had been digging through before. Dennis went sprawling onto his back, his skull connecting with the pavement with an ominous CRACK. He did not get back up. 

Wade cursed, rushing forward to retrieve his knife and the fallen bad guy’s gun. He immediately unloaded the magazine and tossed the weapon’s component parts in opposite directions. He knelt down by Dennis and was relieved to find that he was breathing, but out cold. No real harm done. Spidey would be pleased. 

But, upon closer inspection, the sight of the prone baddie sent off Wade’s “Uh oh” alarm. Up close, he could see the bizarre uniform more clearly: head to toe green with yellow gloves, belt, boots, and suspender thingies that didn’t seem to attach to anything. And most ominous: a patch depicting a skull-headed octopus sewed onto the shoulder like the world’s most fucked-up boy scout achievement badge. Hydra.

**Well that’s gonna be a fucking problem.**

Hydra? What the hell did Hydra want with Spider-man? And why go around playing demolition derby with apartment complexes in Queens in order to get it? Wade could understand the impulse to pull out the big guns (literally) in order to get Spider-man’s attention, but in terms of Big Bads, Hydra was the Biggest and Baddest, not to mention the oldest. They had written the book on modern, large-scale super-villainy (”How to Make Friends and Obliterate People.” Wade had read it. He’d found it a little preachy.) Surely Spider-man as a nemesis was a little small-fry for them as a crime syndicate. 

Panic spiked through Wade. Hydra  _ was _ the most powerful crime syndicate in the world. And he had let Spidey infiltrate their local chapter  _ alone. _

**Time to do something incredibly stupid.**

Wade wheeled around, looking for the other Hydra agent. He found Bob cowering under the remaining pile of boxes, crouched with his arms over his head like he was taking part in a tornado drill. 

This one might not make the Hydra recruitment brochures .

Wade hauled the trembling man to his feet.

“All right, Bob. I know we just met and all, but I need a favor.”

Bob’s breath came in frantic sobs. “Please M…Mr. D…Deadpool, please! I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear! I only joined Hydra because I needed dental insurance! M…my wife’s insurance doesn’t cover it anymore and…it seemed like a good idea at the time. Please don’t kill me! My wife would never forgive me!”

**Jesus. This guy is more pathetic than we are.**

And everyone knows only AIM offers comprehensive health care coverage .

Wade shook the babbling Bob. “Focus, Bob. I’m not going to kill you. I need your help.”

Bob hiccuped a few times in an effort to regain composure. He nodded so hastily he looked like a bobble-head. “Of course, of course. Anything, Mr. Deadpool. Whatever you need.”

“I need you to go inside and sound some kind of alarm. I don’t care what you have to say, I just want as many Hydra flunkies out here as possible, guns blazing.”

Bob was properly flabbergasted this time. “You…you want to fight them?”

“As many of them as possible,” Wade assured him. 

Bob clearly thought Wade was out of his goddamned mind, but he lead Wade into the warehouse, which was largely empty save for some long-neglected pieces of outdated manufacturing machinery. Wade had expected as much. All the best villains kept their headquarters underground. The only thing in the whole space that looked like it had been built in the last 50 years was an intercom panel mounted on the wall. 

Bob pressed a button and cleared his throat. “Um h…hail hydra. This is Bob reporting a Code Red. We…we have a bit of a situation upstairs.”

The speaker crackled as an irritated voice came through. “What is it this time, Bob?”

Bob sucked in a deep breath, as if steeling himself for something. “Um. Deadpool’s here.”

Immediately the stillness of the empty warehouse was interrupted by the blaring of an alarm and red lights flashing. Doors opened in every wall and dozens of uniformed Hydra agents poured in, weapons at the ready. Wade couldn’t help but grin.  _ Finally _ . Something was happening. Sure, it would be a challenge to fight off a hundred guys with guns in a confined space without killing anyone. But, Wade had always valued his creativity. And if Daredevil could do it, so could he. 

Bob hovered uneasily behind him. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Deadpool?” he asked, his voice rising about two octaves. 

“Yeah,” Wade said as he reached back to unsheathe his katanas. “Go home to your wife. Things are about to get ugly.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of death  
> Ahhhh you guys are the sweetest! Thank you so much for all of your support so far!

Climbing through vents is nowhere near as easy it looks on tv. True, Peter had some advantages over the average person in this scenario. He was exceptionally limber and could stick to flat surfaces, giving him leverage while scooting along the smooth metal walls. But that didn’t change the fact that he was person-sized and these passages were built to transport air. Dusty air. Asbestos-filled air, most likely. Peter was glad he’d installed a filtration system in his mask. He was already radioactive. He didn’t want to know what would happen if cancer was introduced to his system.

At least the air-conditioning was on, which meant a) that Peter wasn’t leaving a trail of sweat through the vents and b) that whatever guards were lingering around the dark warehouse couldn’t hear the suspicious sounds of someone army climbing through the ceiling. Besides, attempting to perform acts of near-silent contortion-ism in the ventilation shaft of a suspiciously-empty, potential evil lair always gave Peter plenty of time to think. And he certainly had plenty to think about. Namely: what the actual fuck was going on in his life right now? Not just in terms of almost being blown up by some fancy technology he still only sort of understood. But like…everything.

Look: Peter was willing to accept that Wade was, for all his…quirks, genuinely well-meaning. Maybe Cable was right, maybe Deadpool could be a force for good in the world, swords and all. He had pulled Peter away from the explosion and taken care of him, in a way. And it wasn’t like none of Peter’s colleagues ever blurred the line between heroism and threatening public safety. It came with the territory. Peter himself was accused of it all the time.

It’s just…Wade didn’t have anything to fight for. He wasn’t evil, per se, or operating solely out of his own interest all the time. But, he sure as hell wasn’t responding to any higher call either. Peter knew what he wanted to fight for, the values he wanted Spider-man to represent. Deadpool on the other hand had deliberately cultivated a reputation for mischief and chaos. He was a trickster, a character only the most naive would trust.

Yet there Peter was, trusting him anyway. Or. Well. Did he trust Wade? Was it trust if you were too tired to figure out anything else? Peter never knew how to answer questions like that. That’s why all his romantic relationships had failed, or so he had been reliably informed. Well, it was that or miscalculations about velocity and spinal anatomy at critical moments. At least he would never have  _ that _ problem with Wade.

Not that his relationship with Wade was synonymous with romance. Of course not. It wasn’t even a friendship. If anything, they were bonded by circumstances, and unfortunate ones at that.

That’s what Peter told himself as he lowered himself through 90 degree angle drops in the increasingly dark ventilation shaft. He was only partnered with Deadpool out of necessity. And, well, a little because Deadpool was a good fighter and that could come in handy. It never hurt to have someone around who knew their way around a sword. And Peter could admit to being impressed by Wade’s general breadth and musculature. There was no denying that the man could fill out a leather body suit. Not that Peter didn’t encounter tall, muscly dudes all the time. He knew tons of tall, muscly dudes. With the possible exception of Harry,  _ all _ of the dudes Peter knew were of the tall and muscly variety. But, still. Deadpool was…well, Peter didn’t know exactly  _ what _ Deadpool was, in that respect. Notable, maybe. Something.

In any case, now was not the time to be making complex decisions about why he had asked Wade Wilson to be his lookout. Or, about anything else relating to Wade Wilson. Not that there was “anything else” to think about, because why would there be? There totally wasn’t.

Peter’s head hurt. He was relieved to reach the end of the ventilation shaft, and not just because he was starting to cramp from the awkward crawling. He needed something else to focus on.

Fortunately, his shaft-selection was impeccable. This ventilation shaft had led him below ground and straight to what Peter would have called a conference room were it not for the ring of shiny, state-of-the-art lab equipment around the perimeter. Peter’s immediate response was intense jealousy, because  _ science _ . Then he took a closer look at the figures seated around the table in the center of the room and, well. That was a bit of a buzzkill. Head to toe green and yellow, goggles on even though they weren’t even using any of those glorious beakers or Bunsen burners. Oh, and the giant, spotlit skele-pus in the center of the table, of course.

“Fuck,” Peter muttered as he eased closer to the vent to get a better look.

Hydra? Seriously? Hydra wasn’t even IN Peter’s mental Rolodex of baddies because, well, he assumed he would never have to deal with them. Hydra was Big. Like, Shield Big.  _ Captain America _ Big. Which meant they really had no business in Queens. Peter frowned and pressed his ear to the vent to listen.

“…obviously disappointed, sir. We were…unaware that Bob had decided to take matters into his own hands,” a figure, more or less the same as everyone else in the room, was saying. “He and his partner have been relegated to routine patrol duty until we can figure out how to deal with them.”

“Frankly, I couldn’t care less about the peon who wasted the guided missile,” the man at the head of the table, who Peter decided must be the Head Bad Guy in Charge based on the old-school, all-black, tailored nazi throwback outfit he had on, replied. “The missile was just a way to slow him down. We have plenty more where that came from anyway. They’re on a barge to our allies in Rumekistan as we speak. The real problem is that we’ve shown our position and the situation was already delicate. No doubt the target will be out of town by this time tomorrow and we can’t afford to mobilize our lab. Killbrew’s equipment is temperamental as it is. Our goal now is to find that masked maniac before he skips town.”

_ Okay, _ Peter had a couple of notes for Head Hydra Guy. First of all, Peter didn’t think that someone hiding in the basement of an old warehouse in a Star Wars Imperial Officer costume, pointing advanced weaponry at empty buildings on the off chance that Spider-man would show up at one of them had any business calling anyone else a maniac. Second of all, Peter found it pretty insulting that they thought a little thing like that was enough to scare him away from the city he’d lived in his whole life. As if he’d never seen anything scarier than an underground lab. Please.

“Our surveillance reports indicate that the target and his companion fled the scene shortly after the explosion. Neither seemed gravely injured, but further action is unlikely for the time being,” the initial speaker said.

Head Hydra Guy sighed. “Yes, a direct hit would have been preferable. We’re on such a tight schedule as it is. Have we made progress on the genetic profiles, at least?”

Another green-clad agent stood, somewhat nervously. Peter recognized the hunch of a lab nerd.

“Um, well, we’ve finished processing the files sent to us by Dr. Killbrew and have completed a genetic profile of the subject. We’ve encoded the information on this drive,” the nerd held up an innocuous flash drive. “But in order to begin testing on other subjects we will still need tissue samples from the subject himself. We had hoped to harvest some samples from the blast site, but…”

“But Bob can’t do anything right?” offered another voice from somewhere around the table. Several others snickered.

“Yes, we’ve covered Bob’s incompetence already,” Head Hydra Guy said, putting an end to the laughter. “The goal now is to accelerate the timetable. We’ll need to—”

Head Hydra Guy was interrupted by a crackling sound from a panel embedded into the tabletop. The crackling resolved itself into a voice.

“Um, h…hail Hydra. This is Bob reporting a Code Red. We have a bit of a situation upstairs.”

This report did not cause anyone in the room to snap into action, as Peter thought it should. Poor Bob really didn’t get any respect around here.

Head Hydra Guy rolled his eyes as he pressed a button to respond. “What is it this time, Bob?”

“Um. Deadpool is here.”

Well THAT got their attention. Multiple agents gasped audibly and several were on their feet before Head Hydra Guy had a chance to slam his hand against a big red button on the tabletop labeled “Code Red” (because criminal empires don’t survive as long as Hydra has without proper organization and labeling.) Alarms began blaring throughout the building and over the din Peter could barely hear the Head Hydra Guy yelling instructions.

“This is a code red, that means we need all hands on deck. I want all of you upstairs at once! Remember, the target is armed, dangerous, and absolutely deranged. Subdue him by any means necessary. We won’t get a chance like this again!”

The room descended into a flurry of movement as agents rushed toward the stairwells, checking weapons as they ran. A well-oiled machine, Peter had to admit. Every agent fell into line, save for one. Peter watched the nerdy agent fight against the flow of agents exiting the lair and slink off towards the lab equipment.

Typical lab nerd behavior, always look after the tech first. He might as well have had a sign on his back saying “I’m the one harboring the top-secret information!”

Peter waited for the last of the armed agents to disappear up the stairs— _ to go fight Deadpool. Christ, Wade, I hope you know what you’re doing. Maybe I should—? No, nerd first.—  _ then kicked the vent open and dropped onto the conference table. The alarm covered the sound of his landing so he took advantage of the nerd’s lack of awareness to web his hands to the keyboard into which he’d been punching code. The nerd jumped back reflexively, yanking at his hands. But the webbing held strong. Peter approached at a leisurely pace and tapped the nerd’s shoulder. The nerd craned his neck to look at him.

“Sp…Spider-man?” the nerd sputtered.

“The one and only!” Peter replied cheerfully. “Yes, it’s really me; yes, I make the web-shooters myself; no, I won’t tell you how I did it. Any other questions before we proceed?”

“Wh…what are you doing here?” The nerd was genuinely shaking now. Peter felt his pain. The whole point of building secret underground labs was so the trembling sciency types had somewhere to hide when things got real.

“I’m glad you asked, actually, because at first I was wondering what a covert Hydra operation was doing in my neck of the woods, but it turns out you have a present for me! Now do me a favor and don’t make this weird.” Peter plunged his hand into a pouch hanging around the nerd’s waist and dug around until he found what he was looking for. “Aha!” He drew out the nondescript flash drive the nerd had been discussing earlier. “Oooh, what’s this? A flash drive full of nefarious secrets? How did you know this was just what I wanted? You Hydra guys really are the best! And by best I mean easily outsmarted by a guy in spandex crawling through vents. So. Thanks for that.”

What Peter could see of the nerd’s face had gone very pale. It occurred to Peter that the nerd would probably be punished for his failure to protect the drive. Hydra had their whole “cut off one head and another takes its place” policy and could no doubt afford to replace a lab jockey like this one. Peter couldn’t just leave him here.

“Okay, buddy, it’s your lucky day,” Peter said as he ripped off the webbing securing the man’s hands. “Since you’ve been so helpful, I’m gonna go easy on you. Help me get out of this poorly-ventilated hell-lab and I’ll make sure your employer doesn’t feed you to the company wood-chipper. Deal?”

The nerd nodded and allowed Peter to steer him to a staircase door, which was locked. The nerd pressed a hand to the panel by the door and the door sprang open. Peter bounded up the stairs dragging the nerd behind him. The sounds of shouting and bullets ricocheting off metal grew louder as the pair got closer to the top. Peter tried to mentally prepare himself for whatever chaos Deadpool had created but, really, he didn’t even know what to expect. Either carnage or a circus. Probably both. He turned to the nerd.

“Okay, there’s no way to know what kind of insanity Deadpool has decided to pull this time so your best bet is to make yourself as inconspicuous as possible. I wish I could tell you he definitely won’t kill you, but you know. It’s Deadpool, so, maybe play dead, just to be safe.”

And with that, Peter launched himself back into the warehouse.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey kids. Just a quick heads up: this chapter has some slightly more graphic violence, including body horror. I still consider it all canon-typical, but if that kind of thing bothers you, maybe proceed with caution!  
> Thanks, as always, for reading!

“16…17…18…19…20!” Wade brought the hilt of a katana down on the temple of a Hydra agent who was distracted by the sight of Wade’s abdomen rejecting the bullets he had tried to shoot into it. ( Thanks but no thanks. We are not accepting any mortal wounds at this time. ) “Even numbers are so satisfying!”

Wade tossed the limp agent onto the pile with all his unconscious peers. And they  _ were _ all just un-conscious, not un-alive. Wade had checked. Or, well, not checked so much as hypothesized. He knew quite a lot about un-aliving people, did Wade. And while most of these Hydra guys would be waking up with monstrous headaches and moderate to severe retrograde amnesia, none of them would actually die as a result of their Deadpool-induced injuries. Probably. Wade was like 75% sure.

**To be fair, that’s about as sure as we can ever be about anything.**

“See? Batting a thousand!” Wade swung his sword like a baseball bat. “Who’s next?”

“Holy shit, dude.”

Wade swung around, resuming his batting stance. But, it was only Spidey, dropping down from the rafters next to the hill of sleeping bad guys.

“Spidey!” Wade exclaimed. “Did you enjoy the show?” He gestured to the 20 not-un-alive Hydra agents and then threw in a pirouette for effect.

Spidey studied the pile, kicking at the nearest agent lightly. “I…yeah, actually, that was awesome. But…I mean, they’re just unconscious, right? You didn’t—?”

“No,  _ dad _ , I didn’t un-alive them. Not even a little.”

Well, we kind of did a little. It’s a matter of philosophical perspective, isn’t it? Like, IS living all or nothing? Or are there degrees of death?

**Their hearts are still beating. It’s fine.**

You know the French call orgasms “the little death.” Just sayin’.

“La petite mort,” Wade whispered, because sometimes he liked to feel like he was part of the conversation. ( **Not necessary. Or desired.** )

Spidey glanced at him. “What?”

“Nothing!” Wade chirped, using the sleeve of a nearby agent to wipe off his sword. “Just reviewing romance languages with the boxes.”

“As one does,” the bottom of Spidey’s mask twitched. With a…smile? Was he smiling? He probably wasn’t but Wade reeeeeally wanted him to be smiling, so that was the reality he chose to accept. Spidey turned his attention back to the stack of agents. “Not to be critical here, Pool, because this is definitely better than what I thought I would find up here, but how exactly did you get caught?”

Wade snorted.

**‘Get caught,’ he says, like we’re any good at staying hidden in the first place.**

Someone didn’t read the back of the trading card.

“I didn’t,” Wade said aloud. “You said to stop anyone who might have found you sneaking around like the lithe, limber little spider you are. And these two guards were bumbling around outside like Abbott and Costello. So, I figured, as long as I had Bea and Arthur all lubed up and ready to go, I might as well take out the whole lot of the bad guys at once. Chaos is just as good spider-flague as silence is, you know.”

Spidey didn’t speak for a long beat. Wade geared up his “comical placation” and “bitter self-flagellation” responses, unsure which he would need.

“You took on 20 people with guns by yourself to keep them from noticing me?” Spidey finally asked, his voice, for once, not angry or annoyed. Wade…didn’t have a reaction ready for that.

“Yes?” It came out as a question though Wade wasn’t sure why. “Was that…bad?”

“No, no! It worked…really well, actually. I just,” Spidey sounded strained, somehow. “These guys are Hydra, Wade. They could have…fuck, dude, I don’t even want to know what they could have done to you.”

Oh.

OH

Is he…

**No fucking way.**

“Spidey,” Wade said, trying  _ very hard _ to keep his tone even. “Were you worried about me?”

Spidey kind of…twitched in response to that, as if he’d been pinched unexpectedly, but didn’t want anyone to notice. Wade tended to go back and forth about whether or not he wanted to see Spider-man without his mask (a decision greatly influenced by how likely Wade thought his reciprocation in that endeavor  would be.) But, right then, Wade would have given his good jerking-off hand (the right one, though he’d been practicing more with lefty lately) to see Spidey’s face. Was he blushing? Did Spider-man’s alter ego even blush? Wade didn’t know; but he did know that Spidey had gone from poised hero to sputtering teenager in an instant and he was almost too cute for Wade to handle.

“Wha-worried? Me? No,  _ no _ , of course I wasn’t worried about you. Why would I—no. I just didn’t want to know what might happen if a group like Hydra got a hold of you, as you are immortal and, you know…capable. And stuff.”

He was totally worried. What a dork. We should marry him.

“Capable?” Wade grinned. “Are you referring to my sword-handling skills, Spidey?”

Wade got the impression that Spidey was rolling his eyes under the mask.

“Yes, Wade. Your sword skills are very impressive.”

The White box made a blaring, staticky sound and Wade couldn’t help himself from giggling. He hadn’t expected Spidey to take the bait.

**Relax, Casanova. He’s had a long night. He probably doesn’t even know what he’s saying.**

“I’ll take it!” Wade exclaimed in response to both Spidey and the Yellow box. If Spidey’s begrudging friendliness came at the price of exhaustion then so be it. He wasn’t going to send the sleepyheaded hero to bed while there were not-so-veiled penis euphemisms to be traded.

Then again…

“One step at a time,” Wade warned the White box. Spidey shook his head at the non-sequitur, but didn’t sound angry when he responded.

“So, we should probably get out of here. I got my hands on—”

“Not so fast!”

Wade jumped in surprise and spun around, trying to locate the source of the interjection. He was relieved to see Spidey looking around the dark warehouse in confusion as well. That meant the voice hadn’t been in Wade’s head.

**For once.**

The muffled thump of an unconscious body flopping to the concrete floor drew their attention to the pile of Hydra agents. A man (or, Wade amended, a traditionally-male-shaped person) dressed all in black a la Grand Moff Tarkin was struggling his way out from under the dead weight of his employees. Wade hadn’t seen the guy come in, but he must have been a Hydra big-wig of some variety. No one else would have been so committed to the aesthetic. Spidey, however, recognized the guy instantly.

“Oh, hey, you again!” Spidey said, not flinching when the cartoonish bad guy leveled a weapon in his direction. “Have…have you just been hanging out down there this whole time?”

“All Hydra agents are specially trained in the art of hiding in plain sight!” the agent proclaimed like he was pumping up a crowd at a rally and not having a conversation with two dudes in an otherwise empty warehouse.

“Dude, I don’t think ‘under a pile of your co-workers’ counts as ‘in plain sight,’” Spidey said, still effortlessly unconcerned. Wade kept his eye on the gun.

“And you might want to fire your stealth instructor because, I don’t know if you knew this, but ya’ll blew up a building earlier,” Wade added. “Also Bob showed me where your intercom is. So.”

The Hydra agent let out a strangled sound Wade thought might have been a curse. “For fuck’s sake, if one more person tells me what an embarrassment Bob is I’m going to start taking heads! I should have dropped that moron into the pool of piranha when I had the chance!”

“Hold up. You guys have a piranha pool?” Wade exclaimed. “Shit, dude, that’s classy as hell. No one does evil like that anymore. See, Spidey, this is what I was talking about. The classics never go out of style.”

Spidey snorted. “Sure, but who’s gonna tell this jackass his outfit went out of style in 1945?”

The agent’s eyes narrowed and his grip on the gun tightened, turning his knuckles white.

“Careful, insect,” he hissed. “You’re expendable and I’m already in a bit of a mood.”

The forehead of Spidey’s mask wrinkled into a frown, but his posture remained loose as he strolled lazily toward a piece of rusted machinery.

“I don’t see how that’s  _ my _ problem,” Spidey said. “I didn’t assign you to this shitty, bottom-of-the-nazi pole project. I didn’t tell you to hire incompetent lackies. And I certainly didn’t tell you to make it almost laughably easy to get my hands on  _ this, _ ” Spidey held up a small piece of plastic. It didn’t mean anything to Wade, but the agent’s eyes went wide and frantic.

“How did you get that?” he demanded.

Spidey laughed and flicked the little piece of plastic into the air, using a thin string of web to snag it back. “So, let me see if I’ve got this straight: you designed and manufactured a state-of-the-art, hyper-precise missile, but you  _ didn’t _ think to point a surveillance camera at your vents?”

Spidey’s tone was mocking and jovial. Wade didn’t know whether he found it sexy or terrifying to watch; but, either way, he had a hard time looking away as Spidey pulled himself on top of the dilapidated machinery with ease, circling the Hydra agent from above like a predator, cruel and elegant. Wade realized his taunting earlier must have been true: Spider-man  _ did _ get pleasure from playing with his victims.  _ Want _ unfurled in Wade’s chest at the realization, formless and expansive. True to his name, Spider-man had ensnared him and he would have accepted the consequences whatever they might be if it meant he got to be close enough to touch.

“Looks like Bob’s not the only embarrassment to the name of Hydra, huh? Not that Hydra isn’t an embarrassment all by itself, but I digress. Something tells me you won’t be getting that big promotion you were angling for, buddy.”

The Hydra agent let out another screech and all at once time seemed to slow down. Spidey raised an arm to shoot a stream of webbing towards the rafters just as the agent braced himself, preparing for his gun’s kickback. Wade was no physicist, but he knew a thing or two about how quickly bullets could get from one place to another. And while Spidey’s swinging was dreamy and impressive, he was nowhere near fast enough to outrun a gunshot. So, Wade did the only thing he could think to do on such (very) short notice: he flung himself in front of the gun. He knew as soon as his feet left the ground that he wasn’t fast enough to take the full impact. But, he figured slowing the bullet down was better than nothing. It just nicked Wade’s outstretched hand, severing the last two fingers. He barely registered the pain, focusing instead on trying to position himself under Spidey’s falling body. The bullet blew past Wade and lodged itself in Spidey’s thigh. He yelped in pain and lost his grip on the web, tumbling to the ground and landing on Wade’s chest with an “Oof.” Wade didn’t have time to check on him though. He rolled gently to the side and laid the wounded hero on the floor. Then, he sprang back to his feet and drew a sword with his intact hand.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” he told the Hydra agent, who was readying himself for another shot. Not in the mood for a drawn-out battle scene when Spider-man was potentially bleeding out behind him, Wade ripped the gun out of the agent’s grip with his own bloody hand and slammed the man to the floor. The agent’s hands sprawled in front of him, scrambling for one of his comrades’ weapons. But, Wade stepped on him, one boot planted firmly on his back and another on his wrist.

Wade leaned down. “You’re lucky. Ordinarily I’d just behead a fascist piece of shit like you, but I’m on a bit of a good guy kick right now. So, I’m going to be generous and let Spidey pick your punishment. Spidey?” Wade called. “You still with me?”

“Yeah,” Spidey called back, his voice fainter than before.

“Good. So, which hand is this fucker going to have to learn to live without?”

“Jesus, Wade,” Spidey groaned. “No hand chopping. We’ve been through this already.”

Wade twisted so he could gape at him. “Seriously? He shot you!”

“Yes, and we have to be better than him, remember? Not sink to his level?”

“So I’m supposed to let him walk away unscathed? Free to run around New York City shooting at people willy nilly?”

Spidey sighed, thinking this over for a long moment. Finally, he held up his pointer finger. Wade tried to ignore the sight of blood dripping down Spidey’s wrist from where he’d been clutching at his leg.

“One,” Spidey said. “You can have  _ one _ finger.”

Wade grinned. “I can work with that.” He surveyed the man’s hand thoughtfully. ”You know, I’m feeling poetic today, Spidey.” He lowered the katana so the very end hovered over the agent’s trigger finger. “Any parting words for old reliable here?”

The agent struggled to free himself, but Wade ground his heel down (and if he heard some delicate wrist bones snap, well, that would be his little secret. Spidey had better things to worry about.) The agent yelped, but didn’t offer up any pithy retorts.

Wade shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said and brought the sword down on the squirming man’s pointer finger. The digit separated cleanly and Wade snatched it up. “Don’t think I’m going to let you do some weird science magic and glue this thing back on with a flamethrower attachment or something.”

The screaming man didn’t seem to be listening. 

Rude . 

Wade pocketed the severed finger because, well, you just never knew when a thing like that would come in handy, and returned to Spidey’s side.

“How are you holding up, hero?” Wade asked, eying the growing pool of red underneath Spidey with some concern.

“Just peachy,” Spidey murmured. “But I…I don’t think I’ll be able to stand.” He sounded somewhat sheepish about his predicament, but Wade had gotten shot doing dumb shit too many times to be in any position to judge.

**Yeah, but he doesn’t have a healing factor so maybe you should DO SOMETHING before he bleeds to death, genius!**

“Right!” Wade snapped to attention. He had definitely learned first aid during his stint in the military. He must have. He just needed to remember it. “Think, think, bullet wounds…”

**STUFF SOMETHING INTO THE BLOODY FUCKING HOLE. Jesus Christ, do I have to do EVERYTHING around here???**

While Wade didn’t appreciate Yellow’s tone, he understood its urgency. He scrambled towards the nearest prone agent and used a pocket knife to tear a large piece of fabric from the uniform. It just barely covered the wound in Spidey’s leg, but Wade was pretty sure the hastily-fashioned bandage would hold until Wade could get him out of here. Or, well, he hoped so. He really, really hoped.

Not wanting to waste any time, Wade scooped Spidey up bridal-style, ignoring the weak protests. Wade also ignored the throbbing in his own hand. Ordinarily he might root around in the detritus to reclaim his fallen fingers. But now there was no time. He needed to take Spidey somewhere he could stitch him up safely. So, Wade leapt over the still-moaning Hydra leader and for the second time that night held Spidey’s limp body close to his chest and ran.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi kids! I'm back!   
> Please enjoy a Spideypool fanfic staple: the bathroom medical procedure.   
> TW: blood loss, grim surgical conditions, alcohol use, and more of Wade being his sad self

The thing about massive blood loss is that it makes you sort of useless. Your heart starts beating double-time, your muscles go all limp, sights and sounds seem fuzzy and far away. Faintly, your brain might register that these symptoms mean you’re dying, but your limbs will feel too much like lead to fight back. All you’ll want to do is let your body melt down into a puddle and allow the blackness at the edge of your vision swallow you whole.

At least, that was the excuse Peter was going to use if anyone ever asked why he allowed Deadpool to carry him out of the Hydra hideout and then the six blocks to his home. Ordinarily, Peter would have insisted upon maintaining some professional distance between himself and another hero. It was better that way. The less he knew about them, the less they would expect to learn about him.  _ But, _ Peter thought as he was carried across the threshold of Wade Wilson’s apartment,  _ maybe certain exceptions can be made for emergencies. _ He already knew Deadpool’s name, after all. 

Plus, you know, gunshot wound.

Greenish fluorescent light flickered on around Peter and he felt himself being lowered onto a smooth, cool surface. A bathroom counter he guessed. Wade disappeared for a moment, but Peter could hear a metallic rummaging from somewhere to his right. Peter wished he could get his eyes to focus, but giant black splotches were swimming across his field of vision. He would just have to trust that Wade was looking for a bandage of some kind and not a chainsaw with which to hack off Peter’s leg.

Strangely, Peter found that he did trust him in that respect. Another symptom of the blood loss no doubt. At least, that’s what Peter told himself.

Wade returned a few minutes later with a black suitcase thing which he opened on the counter next to Peter. His thick leather gloves were gone, replaced with surgical gloves, pulled up to his cuffs so Peter still couldn’t see a single inch of his skin.

“Didn’t want to get any of my blood on you,” Wade explained when he noticed Peter staring. He held up his right hand and Peter thought that it seemed a bit…off. He blinked rapidly, trying to figure out what was wrong. Was Peter hallucinating or were Deadpool’s fingers missing? He vaguely remembered Wade jumping in front of the Hydra agent right before the bullet had buried itself in Peter’s leg. Had Wade sacrificed his fingers to keep him safe?

Peter must have made a noise of concern because Wade laughed quietly and said, “Don’t worry, they’ll be back. I’m going to take a look at your leg. Is that okay?”

And Peter must have nodded because Wade grabbed a wad of something white out of the suitcase (gauze?) and gently pulled Peter’s legs apart. In any other situation that might have been interesting, but currently Peter was trying too hard not to scream every time Wade dabbed the white stuff at the wound on his thigh.  _ Still, _ Peter thought somewhat deliriously, it was probably good that so much of his blood had drained out through his leg and thus wasn’t available to go…anywhere else. He’d had a humiliating few hours as it was.

“Okay, Spidey,” Wade said, the usual teasing in his voice softened into something calm and serious that settled strangely into Peter’s chest. “It looks like I’m going to need to dig the bullet out and stitch you up. It’s a pretty small wound, so it shouldn’t take long, but, um,” he paused. “I’d need to take your suit off to get to it.”

Peter looked up sharply, the quick motion making the room spin. Wade reached forward to keep Peter from sliding off the counter, then drew back as soon as Peter was steady again.

“If you don’t want me to see you like that, I understand. I can just call an ambulance and—”

Peter shook his head. “No, no, it’s fine,” he mumbled. Had words always been this difficult? Peter was pretty sure he used to be better at speaking than this. “You can…I just…keep the mask…on, okay?”

Wade nodded and set about trying to lift Peter off the counter and pry him out of the spandex suit without jarring his leg too much. Peter was exactly no help at all in the effort, what with his limbs flopping all over the place rag-doll style. Despite the screaming pain that shot up Peter’s entire left side every time Wade shifted his position, Peter couldn’t help but giggle at what these shenanigans must look like.

“Bet…this isn’t how you pictured…getting me naked…is it?” Peter asked as Wade finally eased the last of the Spider-man suit off the bottom of his legs. Wade laughed, folding the blood-soaked suit and placing it respectfully on the closed toilet lid.

“I wouldn’t presume to imagine such a thing,” Wade replied, slightly less tense now. “But if I had, this is  _ exactly _ how I would have pictured it. Now,” he reached back into the suitcase and pulled out two bottles, one brownish and one clear. He uncapped both and handed the brown one to Peter. “This is going to hurt, so be a good boy and drink your anesthesia.”

Peter rolled up the mask a few inches, raised the bottle to his lips, and took a quick swig. Whiskey, he thought, though it could have been paint thinner at that point and he wouldn’t have known the difference.

“Good,” Wade poured some of the clear liquid onto more gauze. “Lay back and think of Queens, darling. It’ll be over before you know it.”

Peter leaned his head back against the mirror. “Queens as in ‘of England’ or like Ru Paul?”

Wade snorted. “Of England, obviously. Now shut up. I need to focus.”

Wade was right; it did hurt. A lot. Peter had been shot before, but he’d never been awake to watch someone dig a bullet out of his thigh with fancy pliers and then stitch up the ragged hole with surgical thread. He sucked down half the bottle of whiskey just to keep from crying, which was both a great and terrible decision, because the pain started to ebb away, but now he was left with nothing but the sensation of Wade’s hands on his thigh, wrapping it in bandages with more gentleness than Peter would have thought the mercenary capable of. He didn’t know what to do with that information. It was possible that Peter was more whiskey than person at that point.

Finally, Wade finished his ministrations and snapped the suitcase shut.

“Well, Spidey,” he said. “Not to brag or anything, but I think this might be my best work ever. I’m thinking of entering your leg into the county fair.”

Peter giggled, but all the words he meant to say out loud drifted off into the ether.

“Right,” Wade sighed. He took the half-empty bottle out of Peter’s loose grip and hoisted him off the counter. “Bedtime for all good little spider-girls and boys.”

Peter felt himself being laid on a soft surface (a bed? Probably a bed.)

“Hey, Wade,” Peter slurred before the mercenary could retreat.

“Yeah, Spidey?”

“Thanks.”

Wade huffed out a single, soft laugh and pulled the covers up around Peter.

“No problem, sweetheart. Just don’t make me do that again and we’ll call it even.”

He shuffled away out of Peter’s line of sight.

“Hey, Wade,” Peter called again.

“Yeah?”

“This doesn’t mean I like you.”

Wade was silent for a moment, then said, softly,

“Go to sleep, Spidey.”

And he turned out the lights.

*****

The boxes were quiet. That happened sometimes, though Wade wasn’t sure why. Yellow had stayed with him through most of the meatball surgery, supplying him with reminders every so often about how to properly clean and dress an injury. White had fucked off hours ago, which they were wont to do when faced with serious consequences of their destructive impulses.  _ Wade’s _ destructive impulses. But, now, Yellow was gone, too.

Wade didn’t know where the boxes went, exactly, when they weren’t talking to him. But, he’d always thought it was unfair that they got to take a break from him and he didn’t. The knowledge that normal people are alone in their heads all the time wasn’t a great comfort to Wade as he washed the blood of the man he loved off his bathroom counter.

Or, was this love? Or something else? Wade had never been a good judge of such things. All the usual symptoms were present: the aftershocks of panic still spasming in his chest, the radio silence from the boxes, the way he hadn’t even thought twice about showing Spidey where he lived. Surely those were portents of  _ something _ significant. 

Then again, Wade had been alone for...well, a really long time. What did he know about love, anyway? Technically, he and Spidey had just met. He didn’t even know the man’s real name.

And yet...

Wade plopped himself down on the futon he’d fished out of the trash, thoroughly disgusted with the utter predictability of his own emotional reactions. Dumb, delusional Deadpool, always falling for beautiful people who would never love him back. When will he learn that even the worst scum humanity had to offer deserved better than a monster like him, never mind Spider-man?

_ This doesn’t mean I like you. _

Always a glutton for punishment, Wade stripped off the latex gloves to see how his fingers were coming along. Usually, he liked this part, watching various limbs fill themselves back in. The skin stretched pink and smooth during this stage, the healing factor focusing too hard on growing the limb itself to start attacking the skin. There was a twenty minute window during which at least a small part of Wade’s body got to be normal. Usually, that momentary peace helped.

Today, though, the juxtaposition of the youthful skin of his regrowing fingers against the gnarled masses that made up the rest of his hands just served to remind him of how utterly different he was from Spider-man. Wade had tried not to stare too much at the hero’s general musculature while he was stitching him up; he really,  _ really  _ had. But, well, there are only so many places you can look when you’re kneeling between a mostly-naked boy’s legs, gripping his thigh (wow, was White ever missing out on some prime material.) And of course Spidey was as breathtaking out of the suit as Wade imagined.  _ Of course _ he was, because the universe hated Wade and took great delight in punishing him soundly for his multitudes of sins.

The thought of subjecting Spidey to the sensation of his grotesque hands anywhere along the smooth, toned expanse of his body made Wade feel sick. Everyone ran screaming from the sight of Wade’s uncovered skin, and they were right.

_ No _ , Wade thought as he pulled his leather gloves back on, it wouldn’t do to dwell on thoughts of love. Spidey wouldn’t ever want him back. Spidey didn’t even like him. Wade could only content himself with keeping Spidey safe.

That would have to be enough.


	10. Chapter 10

Peter woke up the next morning and instantly regretted it. His head was pounding like it had a personal vendetta against him, his entire left side felt like it was on fire, and his tongue was so dry it stuck to the roof of his mouth.  _ 0/10, would not recommend.  _ On top of all that, he had fallen asleep in his mask, which he’d sworn he wasn’t going to do anymore. And the unfamiliar room seemed to be…ringing? Was that a thing rooms could do? Where  _ was  _ he, anyway?

Peter struggled to push himself into a sitting position, ignoring the aching in his lower body. He had, apparently, spent the night in the world’s most generic bedroom. The only distinguishing feature of the otherwise aggressively beige room was the Spider-man suit folded in a neat stack on the chair next to the bed. A cell phone rested on top. Peter’s phone. Peter’s  _ ringing _ phone, which made more sense than his “ringing room” theory. This investigating stuff wasn’t so hard.

Of course, answering said phone was another matter entirely. Peter stretched as far as he could over the side of the bed without actually having to leave the cocoon of blankets, but gravity didn’t like that idea. Peter tumbled off the side of the bed, smacking his face on the bedside table and crashing to the floor, which the (oh yeah) healing gunshot wound on Peter’s thigh was NOT a fan of.

_ Your friendly neighborhood Spider-man, everyone.  _ Peter stifled a truly pathetic moan and fumbled for his phone. Aunt May told him if he let her calls go to voicemail again for any reason lesser than his actual death she would leak his secret identity to The Daily Bugle, complete with awkward pre-teen photos. He had no doubt that she’d actually do it, so he slapped the phone up to his ear.

“Hello?” he muttered.

“Is this Spider-man?” a distinctly non-Aunt May sounding voice asked. Peter straightened. He didn’t generally give out this number. He definitely didn’t give it to strangers.

“Who is this?” He demanded.

“My name is Irene Merryweather. I’m calling on behalf of Nathan Summers. I’m his chief of staff. I hope it’s all right that he gave me this number.”

Ah, right. The Adopt-a-Deadpool program. That was still a thing. Sort of. Which meant he was…in Deadpool’s bed (okay sitting in a ball on the floor next to Deadpool’s bed?) Yikes. Also, add Spider-man’s historical dislike of authority figures and bureaucracy to the list of things Cable hadn’t bothered to research before enlisting him. What kind of regime was he running anyway?

“Do I even want to know how  _ he _ got it?” Peter asked, grabbing the comforter down off the bed. If he had to be polite to politicians first thing in the morning he could at least be comfortable while he did so.

“He got it from his, um—”

“His computer brain. Right.”

“Don’t worry, Spider-man,” Irene said. “I keep so many secrets not even I’m allowed to know what I know. Your info is safe with me. Nate just wanted me to call and check in on how things are going with Deadpool.”

Peter frowned. Yesterday’s events were coming back to him in blurry pieces. Was he hungover, too? Jesus what the FUCK had happened last night?

“He couldn’t have called himself?”

“He’s currently arbitrating a labor dispute in Rumekistan,” Irene said. “Plus, I kinda want to see how this turns out.”

Peter got the impression he was the butt of some jokes around the watercooler in Providence.

“Um, well,” he swallowed heavily. “It’s actually going…okay? I think? I mean, we didn’t get off to a great start. But he’s actually been pretty helpful?”

Peter’s hazy memories were snapping back into place now and the previous night’s events came back to him. Wade sheepishly volunteering to watch Peter’s back at the Hydra base, Wade deliberately drawing the agents out to fight him to keep Peter safe, Wade leaping in front of a bullet, Wade’s hands gentle on his thighs as he knelt between Peter’s legs…

_ Ohhhkay let’s cut that train of thought off right there _ .

“Really?” Irene sounded surprised, and thankfully, unaware of Peter’s sudden crisis. “You’re not just saying that to be polite, are you?”

“I’m really not,” Peter said. And he wasn’t. He’d probably be strapped to some horrifying torture device in the bowels of an abandoned warehouse right now if it weren’t for Wade. And he hadn’t killed any of those Hydra guys even though he totally could have. That had to mean something, right? “I think he’s making progress. He didn’t kill anyone yesterday, and he only maimed them when I asked him to.”

Irene made a thoughtful sound. “Hm. Well, that’s certainly…something. Though I would hesitate to call it progress.”

Peter frowned again. “Why?”

Irene fell silent for a moment, collecting her thoughts. Peter realized that no one had ever asked her to defend her position re: Deadpool before. Cable was right; not believing in Wade was a safe stance.

“Wade is…erratic,” Irene said finally. “It’s not that he’s never done anything good in his whole life. He has. It’s just that he can’t be counted on to do good consistently.”

Peter recognized Irene’s sentiment. He’d been thinking the same thing 12 hours ago. But, still. Things had changed. Wade had fought for him. And Peter suspected Wade didn’t often have anyone willing to fight for him in return.

“Can anyone, though?” Peter countered. “I mean, we all make mistakes.”

“Sure,” Irene replied. “But not everyone’s mistakes involve long swords or AK-47s.”

“Well. Ok, that’s fair. But, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation if Cable didn’t think Wade could be helped, right? Don’t you trust Cable?”

Irene paused again, even longer this time. Peter recognized the struggle for diplomacy when she spoke.

“I trust Nathan’s vision for the future,” she said. “And I know how badly he wants Wade to be part of it. But Nate forgets that, try as he might, human nature cannot be controlled. Not ethically anyway. You are undoubtedly a good influence on Wade. But no one, not even a lobotomist, can change Wade’s nature if he doesn’t want them to. And I’m not entirely convinced that Wade thinks he can be saved.”

“Is that really what you think? That Wade doesn’t see any good in himself?”

“Think about what you know of his past, Spider-man,” Irene said. “If you were him, what would you think?”

Welp. Peter didn’t know what to say to that. He and Irene said their goodbyes and Peter promised to let her know about any interesting new developments (”Seriously, any at all. Nothing ever happens on this fucking hippie island. I’m starved for gossip.” Peter suddenly remembered what the Hydra Guy said about the shipment of missiles headed for Rumekistan. But, Irene’s grumbling about “terrorism joint task forces” and “mountains of goddamn paperwork” when he brought it up told him that wasn’t the kind of gossip she was looking for.)

It wasn’t until they hung up that Peter realized how ridiculous he must look, curled up in a ball on Deadpool’s floor in nothing but a pair of boxers and a mask. Of course, Wade chose that moment to tap on the door and poke his head in.

“Hey, Spidey, I brought you so—um,” he trailed off when he saw Peter’s awkward position. “Everything okay, bud?”

Peter stood quickly (which his leg was still not crazy about) and tossed the blanket off his shoulders. Belatedly, he realized this left him standing there in his boxers, which Wade’s carefully neutral mask-spression told him was not necessarily less awkward. He snatched the blanket back up and threw it over one shoulder like a toga.

_ Ah, yes, the obvious solution, _ a voice in Peter’s head that sounded suspiciously like Gwen said.  _ You’re a grown-ass man. How are you STILL so bad at this? _

If Wade echoed that sentiment he didn’t show it, mostly because he was still in his full-face leather mask despite being in otherwise civilian clothing, not to mention his own home. He just extended another pile of clothing in Peter’s direction.

“I washed your suit for you, but there’re holes in some pretty risque places, so I brought you some other clothes, in case you don’t want to go the rest of the day with your junk flapping in the breeze. Not to be judgmental or anything, but, dude, you really should build some protection into that thing or the line of Spider is for sure gonna end with you.”

Peter accepted the pile of clothes, which consisted of a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt reading “Bikini Inspector” that Peter could already tell would be huge on him.

“This from the guy who goes into battle in BDSM gear?” Peter said, because what else was there to talk about at 10 in the morning?

“Well, yeah, cause my penis is immortal. There’s just no keeping him down,” Wade replied, deadpan.

Peter’s giggle/snort combo surprised him. His Gwen-voiced conscience reminded him of his grown-ass man status, but Wade was grinning, so Peter thought it must be okay to be immature, just this once.

“Well, I can’t compete with that,” Peter replied. “I’ll take your safety tip under advisement.”

“Heh. Tip,” Wade snorted. “You know me: safety first. Speaking of, I’ll um,” he gestured back toward the door. “So you can change.”

Wade retreated and closed the door behind him, even though all Peter did was shrug into the oversized clothes. He slipped out into the apartment proper when he was done. Wade was standing in the kitchenette doing something at the stove. Peter looked around. The living/dining area was slightly less generic than the bedroom, with a few things strewn about that marked the place as Deadpool’s: the swords lying on the coffee table, a cardboard box full of spare Deadpool suits in the corner, a staggering number of video game consoles stacked in front of the TV, and two posters on the wall (one of the classic 1988 Cindy Crawford Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover and the other a Rosie the Riveter “We Can Do It” poster depicting women of different races and ethnicities.)

“I like your posters,” Peter called to Wade who was singing selections from Rogers & Hammerstein’s “Oklahoma!” to himself.

“Girl Power!” Wade called back, tossing what Peter could now see was a pancake in the air.

“Cindy Crawford in a bathing suit is girl power?”

“There’s no wrong way to be a woman, Spidey!” Wade said, turning and placing a plate full of pancakes on the table. He finally looked in Peter’s direction. And then he froze. And stared. At Peter. For like…a while. Peter glanced down at himself self-consciously to see what Wade was so fixated on. But, all he saw was Wade’s own baggy clothes hanging off his…Oh. Right.

“I’m guessing the boxes have something to say about me wearing your clothes?” Peter couldn’t help but smirk a little at that. Inappropriate though it may have been, Peter couldn’t deny that Wade’s interest in him was a little gratifying. Just a little.

Wade nodded, weakly. “Something like that,” he said, sounding odd.

“Right,” Peter pulled out one of the dining chairs. “Well, while you all work that out, I’m going to eat these pancakes. You just let me know when you’ve got things under control.”

And Wade did, by the time Peter was done eating. Peter was very proud.  _ Take that, Irene. Progress. _

“So,” Peter said. “What now?”

“Oh, yeah,” Wade pried back the Cindy Crawford poster, revealing a wall safe, which Peter felt was admirably Shaw-shanky of him. Very Wade. He twisted the safe open and pulled out a flashdrive. “I saved this for you.”

Right. That. Peter should probably do something about the whole Hydra thing.

“No rest for the wicked,” Peter sighed, taking the drive from Wade. “I should probably look into this. See what these assholes have on me. How ridiculous would it look for me to wander around the city like this?”

Wade shrugged. “On a scale from normal to full-body spandex, I’d give you a ‘just another day in New York’.”

Yeah, that seemed fair. Peter shoved his feet back into the Spider-man colored boots that had found their way onto a mat by the front door and turned back to face Wade. Peter experienced a moment of deja vu, because once again Wade was standing a few steps away looking like he had no idea whether or not he was wanted.

Peter rolled his eyes. As if the two of them weren’t in this together by now.

“Well?” Peter said. “Are you coming or not?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, loved ones. I just want to start off by thanking you all for all the kudos and lovely comments. You're all so nice (and clever! And probably, like, ridiculously good looking. Every single one of you.) I'm so honored that you're all so engaged with this silly thing I just wrote for fun. Second of all, there's some Weapon X/torture discussion in this one, so proceed with caution (nothing explicit, but still.) Also I read like half an article about the theoretical genetic possibilities behind Deadpool, so if it sounds like I don't have a great grasp of the technical stuff...I don't lol. However, if you would also like to read that article, there is a link for it in the text of the chapter. Have fun, you adorable nerds!

“You know, for being such a goody two shoes you spend a lot of time breaking and entering,” Wade said when Spidey re-appeared after climbing in through yet another cracked window in yet another building, holding an ordinarily-alarmed door open for Wade. Wade slipped inside and the door clicked shut, leaving Spidey and him in musty half darkness. “Where are we this time?”

“The Bio-electronics building at Empire State University, generously provided by one Tony Stark,” Spidey whispered, leading Wade down the Exit-sign-lit hallway. “And it isn’t breaking and entering so much as it’s knowing which window grad students leave unlatched so they can sneak into the basement on weekends and work on thesis projects.”

“And you know this how?” Wade asked, watching Spidey do something complicated to the keypad next to a door marked “computer lab A.”

“Because,” Spidey replied, finally pushing the door open. “I’m the one who started the tradition.” He ushered Wade into the lab. “Don’t touch anything in here, please. The last thing we need is to trigger an international health crisis.”

“To be fair, I, like Black Widow’s thighs, already am an international health crisis,” Wade joked, but he snatched his hand back from a tantalizingly multicolored keyboard anyway.

“There’s a showdown I’d pay to watch,” Spidey muttered distractedly as he jammed the Hydra flash drive into a computer straight out of Weasel’s wet dreams. Cables shot out in all directions connecting the monitor to…modems? Hard-drives? Fuck if Wade knew. There was a reason he kept Weasel around and it wasn’t for his rapier wit and access to premium porn sites (okay it was a little for the porn.)

**I can’t believe people think we’re scary when places like this exist.**

The meek shall inherit the earth. Or what’s left of it when they blow it to shit.

Wade always found White’s interpretation of scripture moving. Also moving was the sight of Spidey bending over the computer desk, still in Wade’s clothes.

Surely the presence of the Lord is in this place. I can see His mighty power in Spidey’s pants…

**Where the fuck did we learn hymns?**

Sometimes Wade didn’t hate having disembodied boxes in his head so much. And as long as he was in a good mood he threw a “Oh, I’d let you watch for free, Baby Boy. All you have to do is ask,” in Spidey’s direction. Spidey glanced back and Wade couldn’t read his expression through the mask, but he thought the subsequent head shake was affectionate. Not murderous, at the very least.

“You know she’d kill you easily, right?” Spidey said, looking back at the screen.

“To die by her thighs/ is such a heavenly way to die,” Wade quoted.

Spidey snorted in recognition. “The Smiths? Really, Wade? I didn’t have you pegged as a tragic, hipster type.”

Hipster! Dear God, how old is this infant?

“Excuse you, some of us were actual teenagers in 1986, thank you very much,” Wade corrected, looping back through the lab to stand behind Spidey and watch him open Word documents. “Speaking of, I never did the higher education thing, but I’m pretty sure they don’t let kids play around in places like this, right?”

“Not generally,” Spidey replied, paying half of his attention to Wade and half to the screen. “Are you insinuating that I am not mature enough to open zipped files on a flash drive?”

“No, no,” Wade said. “I’m just checking to make sure I’m not pulling and MCU Tony Stark and dragging Tom Holland into battle with me. My books have a content warning on them for a reason, you know.”

“I don’t know who Tom Holland is or…anything else you just said to be honest. But, I’m 26. So, relax.” Spidey sounded bemused.

Oh. Well. That was a relief.

**As if that makes him any more accessible.**

Wade ignored Yellow’s pessimism and tried instead to focus on the files Spidey was perusing. He pulled up pages and pages of what looked to be photocopied and scanned lab reports. Wade caught glimpses of diagrams of cellular structures and charts listing nitrogen base patterns. He’d had the unfortunate pleasure of learning a fair amount about DNA while under Dr. Killbrew’s care. The good doctor had explained (more for the benefit of the viewing public than for Wade himself) how the human genome hid the secrets of humanity’s past as well as the previously un-triggered mutations that would usher in humanity’s future. For the low, low price of your mental well-being and bodily integrity, you too could be immortal, Dr. Killbrew had explained.

Funny how nothing seems too good to be true when you’re already dying.

Spidey was inputting the nitrogen base combinations into a DNA mapping program on the computer.

“So, Hydra’s been tinkering with someone’s genetics?” Wade guessed. “That’s sufficiently mad-sciency. What’s it got to do with you?”

“That I don’t know,” Spidey said, commanding the program to do something complicated. “When I was eavesdropping back at the Hydra base, they said something about genetic profiles sent to them from some doctor I’ve never heard of. But I’ve spent plenty of time digging around in my own genome and this DNA is definitely abnormal, but not radioactive spider abnormal.”

“So, it’s not you?” Wade frowned, watching the loading wheel on the genetic program spin.

“Nope,” Spidey shook his head. “When the spider bit me its genetic information attached itself to mine, enhancing my abilities: muscle density, eyesight, all that. Basically, my DNA is human plus. This,” Spidey pointed at an adenine, cytosine, guanine, thymine string on the screen. “Is human, but the epigenetic markers are way out of whack.” Spidey selected a portion of the distorted double helix the computer had generated and read the flurry of mathematical symbols the program spat back, mumbling under his breath. “This doesn’t make any sense,” Spidey said aloud after a few tense moments of scribbling out complex equations on a nearby stack of post-its. “If this is real…but that can’t be…how would…?”

Fucking lab nerds.

“As adorable as I’m sure your thinking face is, Spidey, you wanna share your thoughts with the class?” Wade asked. “Using words, preferably. Though I would also accept especially compelling body language.”

Spidey threw his pen down in frustration. “I don’t understand what I’m looking at!” he exclaimed, stabbing an accusatory finger at the screen. “The chemical markers that dictate which genes manifest, which genes are ‘turned on,’ suggest that [this person has virtually non-existent tumor suppressant genes.](http://www.forbes.com/forbes/welcome/?/sites/jvchamary/2016/02/29/deadpool-science/&toURL=http://www.forbes.com/sites/jvchamary/2016/02/29/deadpool-science/&refURL=&referrer=)”

The word’s “tumor suppressant genes” settled into Wade’s gut like a sucker punch.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“It means this person can regenerate cells at will at a rate that outpaces the average lizard by like…a thousand percent,” Spidey gestured to the equations—riddled post-its. Their contents didn’t mean anything to Wade, but Spidey’s words did. His heart had started pounding ominously, but Spidey didn’t seem to notice because he was still talking, his mind moving a mile a minute. “It would take a hell of a stressor to alter the epigenetics that way. But I mean, Jesus, this is what Connors was trying to do. It’s right here. If this is real, if this actually works, this is a miracle. Or, or…”

“Or it’s full-body cancer,” Wade said quietly, beating Spidey’s scientific mind to its ultimate conclusion through sheer experience. His father had always said the real world was the best teacher. Fuck. Wade hated when he was right.

Spidey’s speech stuttered to a halt and he spun to face Wade, clearly surprised that the high school dropout had something to add.

“I yeah…I guess. Continuous regeneration would…how—?”

“What was the name of the doctor who gave this information to Hydra?” Wade asked, dreading the answer he knew was coming.

“Um. Kill…something? Killbrew I think?”

**That sound you hear is the other shoe dropping.**

And Yellow was right, of course. Because why wouldn’t the monster under Wade’s bed have clawed his way down from the great white north and back into Wade’s life right when things were starting to go right for once?

**You didn’t think this was going to be one of those cute stories where your two favorite characters navigate cursory plot points until the author doesn’t feel bad about dedicating the rest of the story to them fucking on every available flat surface, did you? Come on now, read the source material.**

“Fucking comic book nerds,” Wade muttered, collapsing into a swivel chair. “You don’t have to stick so close to canon, you know. Just look at what Joss Whedon did to the Maximoffs.”

“Wade,” Spidey sounded concerned.

“You’re right. Whedon’s an asshole. He shouldn’t count—”

“Wade!” Spidey shook Wade’s shoulder sharply. “What’s wrong? Do you know something about this Dr…?”

“Killbrew,” Wade spat. “Yeah I know him.”

“How?”

Wade laughed bitterly. “Why, he’s the Frankenstein to my monster, of course!”

Spidey looked between the screen and Wade’s masked face. “You mean he—? And this—?”

Apparently being brilliant means you no longer feel obligated to finish sentences. Wade might have found that charming and quirky were he not currently sinking into despair.

“Yeah,” he intoned.

“What does this mean?”

“It means Hydra wasn’t looking for you. They were looking for me.”

*****

Wade told him the story. The military service, the confusion and pain and satisfaction of mercenary work, the cancer, Weapon X and the catastrophic madness of Dr. Killbrew as he ripped Wade apart right down to the DNA and put him back together again, a writhing, scarred, traumatized miracle of science, the constant pain of a body forever at war with itself and a mind that had splintered in an effort to keep him whole. All of it.

Peter had grown accustomed to anger, to the unbridled fury that had cropped up inside of him along with the knowledge that he could physically destroy just about anything in his path if he really wanted to. He had worked hard to channel that anger into productive pursuits, as he really did believe that almost any problem could be solved through frank discussions and mutual understanding. But, as he listened to Wade describe in a monotone the myriad ways in which every person in his life had failed him, Peter’s hands shook with the effort to restrain himself from setting fire to the whole fucking world. Or doing something worse, like wrapping Wade up into an embrace that lasted the rest of his unnaturally long life.

When Wade finally ran out of horror stories he sat hunched in his chair, looking smaller than anyone his size should have been able.

“You know the worst part?” he said, his gruff voice ground to gravel. “They consider me a success. That’s what all this is about.” He pointed to the genetic profile still open on the computer screen. “I’d bet anything that’s what Hydra’s doing. They’re trying to duplicate me. They want to do this to someone else.”

Peter nodded and rubbed his hands together, itching to put his newfound energy to some purpose. “What should we do?”

Wade sighed in a way only a man truly doomed to watch history repeat itself ad nauseum can. “Stop them. Delete their files somehow.”

Peter glanced doubtfully at the flash drive. “I doubt this is the only copy. We’d have to get it off of their main hard drive. I don’t know how to do that. My scientific expertise is pretty exclusively biochemical.”

Wade nodded and fished a burner phone out of his jeans pocket. “Looks like we’ll be paying Weasel another visit.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for more discussions of torture and brainwashing. Also, for you science-y types, I know even less about computer viruses than I do about genetics. So, please accept my apology for the inaccurate technological information in this chapter and in my life as a whole.

Peter’s second trip to Weasel’s apartment was vastly different from the first. For one, it was the middle of the day. He and Wade had stopped for a lunch of semi-dubious street hot dogs on the way, for which Wade had once again carelessly overpaid. For another thing, Peter was actually conscious for the trip. He even managed to walk most of the way, as his leg was feeling much better. He may not have had Wade’s healing factor, but he still healed faster than the average person. Thanks spider genes!

But the biggest difference between Peter and Wade’s first and second trip to Weasel’s was less apparent. Peter couldn’t have put it into words, but  _ something _ had settled into the space between them. The silent horror of the knowledge of what they had seen on the Hydra flash drive was part of it, certainly. But there was more to it than that. What had started as an investigative excursion had become a mission, at least to Peter. He no longer wanted to do whatever it took to appease Cable and get Wade out of his hair. He wanted to protect Wade, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to launch a full investigation into  _ why _ he felt that way. Spider-man helped people. That was justification enough for now.

Weasel, on the other hand, picked up on a different kind of difference as soon as he opened the door.

“Hey guys, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” he paused, raised an eyebrow in Wade’s direction. “Is that your shirt?”

He pointed to the t-shirt still hanging loosely from Peter’s shoulders.

Wade shrugged. “He stayed over at my place last night. Needed something to wear.”

Weasel stared as Wade shoved his way into the apartment, which was only marginally better lit that it had been last night. Peter tried to slip in after him, intending to leave the be-spectacled weapon’s expert to process this information.

But, Weasel grabbed his arm and said, in a low voice, “You guys didn’t…?”

“I got shot at the Hydra compound last night,” Peter explained, electing to ignore the way his stomach swooped in response to the implication that he and Wade might have had epic, Spidey Suit destroying sex. “Suit got damaged.”

Weasel seemed somehow both disappointed and relieved about this revelation, but either way he accepted it with a nod. Both men entered the main living area of the apartment where Wade was standing, shifting from one foot to another almost absentmindedly. He had been tense ever since leaving the Empire State lab. He was energetic, as per usual, but his posture had taken on an antsy edge. Peter recognized the feeling. Wade wanted to  _ do something _ about this Hydra business. Peter did too.

“Hydra, then?” Weasel asked Wade.

Wade nodded. “They built a lab in the basement of the warehouse.”

Weasel whistled. “Jesus. Any idea what they want?”

Peter reached into the pocket of his borrowed sweatpants and drew out the flash drive.

“They have a drive full of Wade’s genetic information.”

Weasel’s eyebrows flew up and he snatched the flash drive out of Peter’s hand. He shoved it into the nearest USB port.

“Are you sure?” Weasel asked, opening documents at lightning speed.

“Yes,” Wade said grimly.

Weasel perused the documents, frown etching itself deeper and deeper with each page.

“Shit, dude,” he said, which Peter thought was a bit of an understatement. “How did Hydra get old Weapon X files?”

“Killbrew sent them,” Wade said softly, turning away from the bank of computers dispassionately displaying his ravaged genetic structures. He wandered over to the weapon’s workshop on the other side of the apartment and began fiddling with some spare parts just, Peter suspected, to have something else to focus on.

“Of course he did,” Weasel muttered, his lip curling in disgust. “Let me guess, Hydra wants to build another regenerating Super Soldier?”

Peter started at Weasel’s use of the term “Super Soldier.” Usually that title was reserved for Steve Rogers. And even then, no one ever said it to his face. But, Peter supposed, thinking back on Wade’s history, that must have been what he was intended to be. A highly skilled fighter who couldn’t die. The perfect weapon, provided you could get that pesky “free will” thing out of the way. That’s where Weapon X had failed with Wade, but who better than Hydra to scoop out human nature and replace it with obedience? The implication was staggering.

“Yeah,” Peter said in response to Weasel’s question. “Science thrives on replication.”

“Science?” Weasel spat, turning his disgust on Peter. “Scientists answer to an ethics board. Do you know what they did to him? Because I’ve known Wade for a very long time and I promise you he hasn’t always been this crazy.”

Peter glanced back at his partner, who was examining what looked like half a pistol with academic rigor and speaking softly to his invisible companions.

“I do know, actually,” Peter said. “And I’d really prefer it if you didn’t call him that.”

Weasel was silent for a long moment. He examined Peter in a way that made him feel oddly exposed, though he was still wearing his mask. Peter remembered Weasel’s penchant for surveillance and wondered if it was a mistake to assume that a nerdy recluse who spent most of his time in a dark apartment tinkering with electronics didn’t know anything about human interaction. He wondered what he and Wade looked like from Weasel’s perspective.

“So I take it you have some kind of plan,” Weasel said finally. “Because Wade isn’t going to let anyone  _ replicate _ him, science be damned. Not that it would work anyway, but whatever. He’s killed people for a lot less.”

Peter nodded. “That’s why we’re here. We need to delete these files. Without any tissue samples from Wade there’s not much they can do with the information, but it’s better they not even have the option. They’re going to come for him again otherwise. I’d rather that not happen again.”

Weasel’s fingers were moving across one of his keyboards before Peter had even finished speaking. He’d pulled up a black box and was typing code Peter didn’t recognize.

“I’m writing a virus,” Weasel anticipated Peter’s question. “Of the ‘seek and destroy’ variety. If you can manage to get access to any computer connected to Hydra’s network, you should be able to put the flash drive in and let the virus seek out all the files containing Wade’s info and corrupt them.”

“So we have to get back into the compound?” At some point during Weasel’s explanation Wade had rejoined them.

Weasel nodded, but his eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Yeah. They’ll probably have upped their security after last night. But I’ll let you hero types figure out how to navigate that.”

Wade hummed a few bars of “Hero” by Enrique Iglesias and ruffled Weasel’s hair in mock affection (which Peter was beginning to suspect was a cover for true affection.)

“How long will you need?” Wade asked.

Weasel shrugged. “Couple of hours? Should be ready by 7 ish. 8 at the latest. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

Peter and Wade recognized the dismissal for what it was and headed back towards the door. Wade called out his thanks and went back out to the hallway. But, again, before Peter could make his way through the door, Weasel’s voice stopped him.

“Hey Spider-man?” he said.

Peter turned back. “Yeah?”

Weasel took a deep breath, as if needing to fortify himself for something. His hands had stilled against the keyboard, but he was still staring straight ahead, rather than at Peter.

“Not…not that I don’t think you’re a good guy or whatever,” Weasel said haltingly. “But…just don’t…mess with him, okay? He…he can be a bit of a dick sometimes, but people have always treated him like shit. And not just the Weapon X stuff. Like, people he trusted. He looks up to you, you know? It would be really shitty if you fucked with him, too. Like…exceptionally shitty.”

So Peter had been wrong when he assumed that no one was willing to fight for Wade. It was only fitting that a hacker and architect of custom weaponry would act as the mercenary’s advocate. Peter wondered if Wade knew Weasel cared enough about Wade to threaten someone capable of snapping him in half. Peter also wondered how much the clothes sharing had affected Weasel’s warning. But that line of questioning seemed even more dangerous than the work bench covered in ammunitions.

“I won’t,” Peter promised.

Weasel nodded. “Good. I may not be as strong as you, but I can be pretty resourceful when I need to be. And Oscorp keeps very meticulous records.” He began typing again, nonchalantly, and Peter’s stomach lurched. “Don’t worry, Mr. Parker, all my friends are mercenaries. I won’t sell you out unless I’m sure the price is right. Now,” he glanced over to Peter, who was frozen with one hand on the doorknob. “Don’t you have a Hydra infiltration to plot?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi kids. Thanks for sticking with me for so long already! I hope I've built up enough goodwill so far that you won't hate me for what's about to happen. ;)  
> Trigger Warnings: violence, pretty severe emotional distress, and...ahem, Major Character Death.

The plan was a simple one, as far as plots to re-infiltrate infamous criminal organizations go. They would sneak back under cover of darkness. Wade’s uncanny gift for reconnaissance had revealed a new emphasis on security at the warehouse: armed guards wearing tracksuits, fingerprint sensitive door locks, the whole nine yards. Wade would have to stay hidden this time, picking off the guards from a distance with tranquilizer darts he won from Hawkeye in a poker game (“Wait, you play poker with Hawkeye?” “Sure do.” “Which one?” “Barton, obviously. I’m dumb, but not ‘gamble against Kate Bishop’ dumb.”) It was up to Peter to cause the distraction this time around, since he wasn’t the one they would be expecting. Only the Head Hydra guy and the lab nerd had known Spider-man was there, and they had both (presumably) seen him take a bullet to the thigh, which tended to mean game over for the non-super set. Hopefully his presence in lieu of Deadpool’s would buy them enough time to get the drive to a Hydra computer. If not, well, the pair of them weren’t entirely without recourse should it come to that. Peter wondered aloud if the fingerprint scanners might present a bit of a problem, but Wade assured him that he had taken the Head Hydra Guy’s severed finger with him the night before and stashed it in his freezer.

It really said something about the past 24 hours that Peter met this revelation with pleasant surprise, rather than horror. Pleasant surprise and giggling, apparently. Peter made a mental note not to pass this tidbit on to Irene (even though “hey I’ve started finding severed body parts funny. That’s normal, right?” was probably the kind of gossip she was hoping for.) This could not have been Cable’s intended outcome.

But, for his part (Dahmer-esque freezer furnishings aside) Wade kept his suggestions non-lethal, which Peter thought was generous considering what was at stake. Before long, the pair had concocted an admirably PG-rated master plan that even Aunt May would have approved of (at least in so far as she ever approved of Peter putting himself in harm’s way.) All that was left to do was return to their respective apartments, suit up, and wait to meet up again on the usual rooftop at sundown.

And…Peter intended to do just that. He really did. It was just…his apartment wasn’t well-ventilated, right? No AC, one small, grimy window that barely opened (and even when it did, there was no breeze to be had on this godforsaken island anyway.) If he had to squeeze himself back into that fucking spandex, he could at least wait for the sunset out in the fresh air, right?

Of course, there was more to it than that. Peter knew he could be obtuse, but even he couldn’t misinterpret the pang in his chest as he stripped off Wade’s t-shirt. The sight of the too-big clothes mingling with his own in the hamper smacked too much of stolen glances across high school lab tables or passing glimpses of a name on the marquee of an indie theater in Midtown. Wade wouldn’t be getting this shirt back, Peter decided without consciously deciding. And the accompanying realization was too…warm, somehow. Too close. And Peter knew he would suffocate here in this stuffy studio. So, fresh suit and mask in place, he slithered back out his pathetic excuse for a window and swung back up to the rooftops, fully prepared to panic in solitude.

But, that would have been too easy. Because when Peter rounded the corner of the building he and Wade were supposed to meet on, Wade was already there. Had been there for a while, judging by the empty jumbo-sized Slurpee cup lying depleted on the roof next to him. And fuck if Peter didn’t find that charming. He’d gotten so used to people not wanting to see him (thanks JJ) that the pleasant anticipation of meeting up with someone who was equally excited to see him felt like a forgotten toy he’d found while cleaning his room.

He was just…happy to see Wade, okay? Tanning reflector and all. Though the tanning reflector was a surprise.

“You know those tend to work better when you’re skin isn’t completely covered, right?” Peter called to the supine Deadpool.

To his credit, Wade didn’t seem surprised by Peter’s early appearance. He did seem to be smiling though.

“Trying to get me naked, Spidey? And in public, too. Should have known you’d be a kinky fucker.”

Peter laughed and plopped down onto the roof next to Wade. “Well, to be fair, bondage is my calling card, so it couldn’t have been that difficult to figure out.”

“Right. And a little exhibitionism never hurt anyone. Aside from the exhibitees, I guess.”

“All press is good press,” Peter quoted sarcastically. “What’s up with the mirror, anyway?”

Wade sat up. “Didn’t want to look suspicious sitting up here by myself,” he folded up the mirror. “Figured if I pretended to be sunbathing no one would notice.”

Peter took in the familiar red and black leather, the crisscrossed swords, the general size of the man next to him. He snorted.

“I think that ship might have sailed, buddy,” he said.

Wade sighed tragically. “It’s a burden being this iconic. But, someone had to make sure girls at comic cons know exactly which dudes to avoid. So, the guy who designed the Dark Mark tattoo and I will just have to keep fighting the good fight.”

Sometimes, Peter felt like Wade knew something he didn’t.  Fully half of what came out of his mouth didn’t make any sense. But then again Peter could stick to walls, so maybe some perspective was in order.

“Where did you come up with that stuff?” Peter asked.

“The fourth wall stuff? I don’t come up with it,” Wade said. “It just is.”

“See? Like that. What fourth wall?”

Wade chuckled and patted Peter’s head affectionately. “There is more in Heaven and Hell, Horatio, than is dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“What?”

“Don’t look at me like that! Shakespeare is technically a pop culture reference in this universe. I’m still on brand.”

This conversation was not dispelling any of Peter’s confusion. So, he switched gears. He pointed to the tri-fold mirror.

“Where did you get that?”

Wade shrugged. “Picked it up last time I was in St. Barts.”

“You go to St. Barts?”

Jesus. Peter knew Wade was rich, but he hadn’t thought he was like…yuppie bourgeoisie rich.

Wade laughed at Peter’s obvious concern. “Relax, ya commie. I was there to steal some tax documents from the CEO of some pharmaceutical company. Bastard bought the rights to distribute this drug used by people with immune disorders then hiked the price about 500%. Turns out he was also embezzling from his own company, which is maybe the least surprising thing that’s ever happened. Weasel and I took care of him. Pretty sure he’s in prison now.”

Peter gaped. He had actually heard about that on the news. He hadn’t known the downfall of the drug tycoon was Wade’s doing. How many major events in recent history had Deadpool’s fingerprints (as it were) all over them?

Deadpool noticed Peter’s stunned silence and shrugged uncomfortably.

“Don’t look at me like that. Anyone would have done the same thing pro bono. Sometimes you’ve just gotta take a fucker down for the hell of it.”

Peter didn’t know that most people would take on a pharmaceutical giant with nothing but a pair of swords and a computer savvy friend, actually. But, that wasn’t even the most stunning part.

“You did all that for free?” he asked.

Now it was Wade’s turn to gape. “He was stealing meds from cancer patients and AIDS victims, Spidey,” he said, like the reasonableness of his actions was obvious.

And,  _ Jesus _ , it was. Peter had so strongly believed that because Wade didn’t follow the Spider-man ethos, he must not have a moral code at all. That his behavior was shaped by the will of his employers. Or, worse, was utterly random. But, of course, it was more complicated than that. Peter had forgotten what pain really did to people.

It was easier, as a masked vigilante who wanted to keep people safe, to reduce human experience down to a manageable chart with zeroes and ones. To operate under the assumption that pain snapped people in half and those halves could only fall one of two ways—towards cruelty or towards kindness.

_ Of course _ , there had always been an alternative, albeit one that made Peter’s job much more difficult. Pain could also make you flexible, it could teach you how to bend, how to see the world as a gradient rather than black and white. Wade had always lived in the gray spaces. They had practically created him. His pain had simply taught him where his true priorities should lie. Or, at least, it had taught him to think twice about the rules other people followed blindly.

“Okay, no offense here, Spidey, but the silent staring is kinda starting to freak me out.”

_ Oops _ .

Peter tried to shake off the haze of epiphany. Staring blankly at the newfound object of his affections had never done him any favors in the past. Peter was, above everything else, an anxiety-riddled nerd, after all.  He gestured back to the mirror.

“And you stole the mirror as a souvenir?” he asked.

Wade shrugged again. “Well, they would have noticed if I’d chopped off his finger. ‘Sides, it’s emblematic of his vanity and egotism, which led to his downfall in the first place. Poetic or some shit, right?”

_ God _ , Peter liked him.

“Can you even get a tan?” he teased.

“See now I feel like you’re deliberately missing the point.”

“It’s an honest question!” Peter laughed. “It’s not like I’ve seen enough of you to know.”

“Well then you’re one of the lucky ones.”

“Oh, come on,” Peter registered that the overall tone of the conversation had shifted decidedly, but he pressed forward anyway. “I find it very hard to believe that you look as bad as you think you do.”

“And I find your lack of faith disturbing,” Wade was still speaking lightly, like this was still a joke. But, Peter noticed the note of fear that was creeping into his voice. But, Peter’s curiosity was overwhelming.

“Wade, not for nothing, but…you know you can trust me, right? Whatever it is you’re afraid of…I mean…I won’t…” fuck Peter was bad this. “I don’t actually care what you look like.”

“Is that why you’re trying so hard to get me to take my mask off?”

It shouldn’t have been possible for a leather mask to seem that unimpressed. Guilt unfurled in Peter’s chest.

“I…you’re right. That was…not at all subtle and inappropriate. I’m sorry.”

But, Wade shifted so he could look at Peter with renewed interest.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said.

Now it was Peter’s turn to get nervous.

“Um. Okay. What kind of deal?”

The mouth area of Wade’s mask twitched upwards wryly.

“I’ll take off my mask if you take off yours.”

In retrospect, Peter really should have seen that coming. Never try to negotiate when your most valuable asset is a secret identity. Peter was reminded of Weasel’s sinister promise and wondered if he might as well just give Wade this information himself.

In the end, he compromised. He slowly reached up, ignoring every self-protecting instinct he had and peeled up the bottom of his mask, stopping just above his nose. Then he lowered his hands to his lap. Wade watched the proceedings motionlessly.

“Well?” Peter said quietly, trying not to imagine the bottom half of his face as a beacon, attracting every journalist and wannabe super villain to his immediate location. Wade, for his part, seemed transfixed by Peter’s mouth. Despite the anxiety, that still made Peter smile.

That seemed to do something to Wade. He sat up straight, drew in a deep shuddering breath, then imitated Peter’s movements, reaching up to un-clasp the back of his mask and to slowly pull the thick leather off his skin. He stopped exactly halfway up, just above the bridge of his nose.

For a moment, Peter was too pleased that his gamble had actually paid off to register anything unusual about what Wade had revealed. But, when Wade drew his hands away, twisting them together in an anxious embrace on his lap, Peter could see.

He looked…burned. That was the closest comparison Peter could think of. Wade’s skin settled over his jaw and cheekbones in uneasy ridges and plateaus, like a desert landscape as seen from an airplane. It looked at once inflamed and deathly. Peter’s stomach clenched, but in horror at the memory of how this had happened rather than revulsion at the sight.

He was suddenly overwhelmed by the impulse to get closer. Driven by curiosity and the need to let Wade know that he was unequivocally not afraid, he leaned forward before he could think too much about it. Wade drew in a harsh breath, but didn’t flinch away.

“God, Wade,” Peter breathed. “Does it hurt?”

Finally, Wade moved. His lips shuddered apart and his head tipped forward defensively.

“Always,” he said, his voice low.

Peter’s heart splintered off in a million directions. Fury at Weapon X, sympathy for Wade, and a desperate urge to help provide some comfort, in whatever form that needed take. So, Peter did the only thing he could think of. He stripped off his gloves one at a time and slowly, tentatively raised his hand so it hovered mere centimeters from Wades down-turned chin.

“May I?” he murmured.

Wade’s breath caught, a small, agonized sound. But, he nodded slightly, letting Peter cup his jaw gently and draw his chin up, so they were face to face once more. Peter stroked Wade’s cheek, marveling at the sensation. Despite its appearance, Wade’s skin felt like skin, though the peaks and valleys in the texture spoke volumes about the war going on beneath the surface.

Maybe Peter’s “science brain” took over, or maybe he had just seen too many bizarre and grotesque things in his life to react as others would in this scenario, but he didn’t feel like running away screaming. His heart hurt just thinking about all the people who had. Wade was beautiful, if only in a way that would have been difficult for Peter to explain.

But, fuck it. Not everything had to make sense. There he was, sitting on top of a shitty apartment complex in a shitty neighborhood, wearing full spandex and caressing the uneven skin of a man who couldn’t die. Who could say what was and was not beautiful in that situation? The sun dipped towards the line of skyscrapers in the distance and Peter’s thumb traced the space where Wade’s skin met his lips and Wade’s breathing grew rapid and uneven and Peter realized he didn’t really care whether or not what he did next made sense. He used his gentle grip on Wade’s chin to draw the other man in closer, close enough to feel Wade’s unsteady breath mingle with his own, close enough to feel Wade trembling just a bit, close enough to—

“Okay! That’s enough experimentation for one day! Field trip’s over!”

Suddenly, Peter was tumbling onto his back. He looked up in bewilderment at Wade who was now on his feet and pacing. It took a moment to realize what had happened. Wade had shoved him away  _ hard _ . The combination of impact and shock knocked the breath out of him.

“What?” he gasped. “What are you talking about?”

Wade laughed, high and manic.

“Please, Spidey. I may be a lunatic, but give me a little credit,” Wade’s tone was acerbic and Peter had never been more confused in his life. And that was really saying something.

“Wade, I don’t know—“

“We both know the only reason you’re here right now is because you’re being paid to be!” Wade resumed pacing. “I’m just Nate’s little charity project to you. That’s all.”

_ So that’s what this is about. _

“Wade, that isn’t—“

“Don’t lie to me!” Wade’s voice, usually deep and gravelly, sounded high and, Peter thought, a little afraid. “You’re just a bleeding heart who feels sorry for me because I’m a monster with a sad backstory. Well, I don’t need your pity!”

Peter pushed himself up onto his feet. If he was going to have this conversation he wanted to be closer to Wade’s eye level.

“Wade,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, even though Wade’s frenetic panting was scaring him a little. “Listen to me. This isn’t about pity, okay? I…I like you.”

“NO!” Wade pointed at him accusatorially. “No you don’t! Stop lying to me!”

Then, he clutched the sides of his head, as if he was in pain. Or, Peter realized a second too late, like the voices in his head were yanking him in opposite directions, making it impossible for him to think straight.

“I’m not lying, Wade,” Peter was unable to keep his fear in check. “Please, this is what’s real, okay? What I’m saying is the truth. You have to trust me.”

Wade laughed again, an unfamiliar cackle.

“Trust you?” he spat. “Come on, Spidey, you’ve heard all my stories. I don’t trust anyone. But, hey,” he reached up to rip his mask the rest of the way off. “You wanted to see me! So, here I am! The Regenerating Degenerate! As fucked up on the inside as he looks on the outside! Are you happy now, Spidey?”

“Please don’t listen to them, Wade,” Peter was surprised to find himself speaking around a sob. Wade’s eyes were blue. Blue and undeniably human. “They are lying to you. You’re not a monster. You are good. I’ve seen it.”

“Right. I forgot, the amazing Spider-man always knows best,” Wade’s tone had swung back to bitter sarcasm. “Well I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but I know a lot more about darkness than you do. And if any part of you is drawn to me it’s only because you’re a little fucked up, too. At least I can admit it.”

_ Not this shit again. _

“For fuck’s sake, Deadpool, we’ve already been through this,” Peter said.

“Oh am I back to just Deadpool now? Perfect,” Wade reached back to draw out a katana. Peter’s Spidey sense flared and he reached out on instinct, using a stream of web to yank the blade out of Wade’s grasp before he could swing. Wade laughed, seemingly delighted with this development. “There he is. There’s the Spider-man I believe in.”

Wade drew out his other sword and tossed it aside as well. Then he beckoned Peter closer.

“Come on then, hero. Do your job. I’m a very dangerous man. Use that super human strength of yours and stop me.”

Peter groaned and leapt out of the way as Deadpool lunged at him. This was not at all how this encounter was supposed to go. Wade was fast and fierce, coming at Peter again with a dancer’s grace and a freight train’s force. But, Peter was faster and it was a simple matter to outrun the larger man and use a few strategically placed webs to restrain him. But, that was a temporary solution. Peter had forgotten about the knives. No sooner had Peter strapped down his arms than Wade somehow slipped a knife out of, what, his sleeve? Who even knew? Wade made quick work of his restraints, slicing through the webbing easily.

“Plan A didn’t work. What’s next?” he taunted. And even Peter had to admit that the smile that pulled across Wade’s face was a little disconcerting, given the context. Peter shook his head.

“Wade, please,”

Wade’s eyes were so blue.

“All this and you still haven’t figured out not to go easy on me.”

Wade launched himself at Peter, sending them tumbling back onto the rooftop. His hands grappled at Peter’s throat. Peter’s Spidey Sense sent adrenaline surging into his veins, overwhelming his rational brain, and he wrenched Wade’s hands away and shoved him off. Wade careened backwards, skidding across the roof. He sat up again quickly, expression twisted in fury. Whatever spark of sanity his eyes had been harboring was gone, replaced by something desperate and terrified. Peter’s heart raced. He pushed himself onto his feet and paced a few steps, away from Wade’s turned back and his frantic expression. Adrenaline had thrown everything into sharp relief and Peter needed to  _ think _ , but Wade was still talking and Peter couldn’t  _ focus. _

Peter walked up behind the kneeling Deadpool

 “Which of those fucking boxes is feeding you this shit?” he demanded.

 But, Wade just shook his head.

 “You still don’t get it,” he said. “I  _ am _ the boxes. They are me. This…this is what I am. This is all I am. Just a depraved, violent, un-loveable—“

 “Shut up!” Peter shouted. “I said  _ shut up!” _

__ The two men moved simultaneously. Wade shifted, moving to throw himself at Peter yet again. Peter reached forward, intending only to put his hand over Wade’s babbling mouth and spin him around in the opposite direction. But, fear and anger simmered through all of Peter’s limbs, blurring at the edges of his vision red and hot. He slapped his hand around Wade’s jaw and yanked. Wade’s head snapped towards him with an audible  _ crack. _

And his body went limp.

For the briefest second, Wade’s eyes met Peter’s and, bizarrely, softened into what Peter could only call relief. Then, the lights behind those brilliant blue eyes went dark.

Peter stared. Realization rolled over him in waves as Wade crumpled to the roof at his feet. _ That was his neck. I just snapped his neck _ . First the knowledge settled over him cold and clinical.  Then.

_ Oh my god, I just snapped his neck. _

Peter staggered back a few steps. Horror erupted in his stomach, whiting out his vision.  _ I just snapped his neck _ . Peter’s stomach heaved itself up into his throat. A memory tugged at him, the distant voice of Wade sneering “You look too beautiful when you’re beating the shit out of someone not to be getting some pleasure out of it.”

In a vague, intellectual way Peter was aware that Wade technically couldn’t  _ die. _ He would be up again in a matter of minutes. But, given the circumstances that seemed beside the point. Most people could die. Anyone else  _ would have. _ Wade had been right about him. His ethos meant  _ nothing _ . It was just the lullaby he sang to himself so he could sleep at night. In reality, he was just as capable of killing as Deadpool had ever been. He’d just never wanted to admit it.

Peter dissolved, vision dissipating into darkness. He must have collapsed, because he felt something hard and gritty against his cheek. But in all the ways that mattered he was numb. A monster. Worse than a monster. Too far gone to register the sounds of a man with a healing factor that didn’t believe in death coming back to consciousness a stone’s throw away. Too far gone to register the presence of that man standing over him, shaking his shoulders, calling his name. He didn’t notice when the shaking stopped. And he didn’t register the grief-stricken voice that gritted out “bodyslide by two” before leaving Peter alone on the rooftop in featureless silence.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys. Sorry for the delay between chapters. ~Real Life~ has been happening, unfortunately.   
> But I hope you all enjoy this chapter. It's a little self-indulgent, but it's one of my favorites in the entire fic, so I hope you all like it as much as I do.

Wade wasn’t sure where he had ended up this time. Nathan had tried on multiple occasions to explain to him how the teleportation system worked.  _ You have to form a clear picture in your mind of where you want to go, Wade. Come on, Wade, you have to focus.  _ But, as always, Wade hadn’t cared enough to listen to Mr. Perfect lecture him about the “right way to do things.” As if there was any chance that Wade would ever be able to do anything right.

Wade blinked the remaining black spots out of his vision as he struggled to maintain his balance after re-materialization. His healing factor had sewed the injury to his neck back together fairly quickly, but it always took a while for all his systems to come back online after widespread traumatic nerve damage. And he never really got used to dying. Even when that was the only surefire way he knew to wrestle some semblance of control back whenever White got kindness confused with violence and sent him spiralling into unnecessary fight or flight.

At least the system reset had worked. Once his eyes were back in working order, Wade took in his surroundings. And as soon as he did, he started to laugh.

**Why are we laughing?**

I think it’s an ironic response.

“It’s a perfectly appropriate response,” Wade cackled at the bleak landscape stretching out around him in all directions. “I’m finally where I belong.”

Through the general gloom Wade could see that he was standing in the middle of a barren field. It may at one point have been used to grow something useful, but now the earth was dry and cracked below his feet. The only plants that grew anymore were the occasional thickets of weeds, thick and covered in sinister thorns, which gnarled their way out of the dust obstinately and refused to budge, even in the face of the wind that swirled frantically across the plain. Heavy storm clouds crowded across the entire sky, spitting barbed tongues of lightning out at the horizon. The only other form on the grim landscape was a dead tree, massive, empty, and twisting up to the sky with spidery, desperate branches.

Spidery and dead inside.

**Sound familiar?**

“Oh, Wade.” Wade didn’t turn to face Nate when he heard the other man’s voice. He knew Nate would have seen by now what he’d done and Wade couldn’t bear to watch yet another person he respected look at him with disappointment. Or worse, disgust.

“Call it off,” Wade called back through gritted teeth. “Your experiment failed. Let Spider-man off the hook.”

The thunder that crackled in the distance seemed to comprise Nate’s response. Vaguely, Wade wondered exactly where he had brought them. He hadn’t been picturing any place in particular when he’d initiated the bodyslide, and he was pretty sure he’d never been here before. But the majority of Wade’s cognitive faculties, such as they were, were too focused on overwhelming agony to make heads or tails of the metaphysics of the situation.

Eventually, Nate heaved a sigh that carried the full weight of his time-traveling world-weariness within it.

“Wade,” he said softly. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

And that…wasn’t what Wade was expecting him to say. Where was the anger, the frustration? Wade had just fucked up his chance to be a good little foot soldier in Cable’s Salvation Army  _ again _ . Where was the punishment? Wade’s hamster wheel of emotions spun for a moment in confusion as he tried to decide how to respond. He settled on sarcastic indignation.

“To myself? Are you fucking serious, Nate?” Wade sputtered, finally rounding to face the other man. “What, Cable The Omniscient didn’t catch the latest development in his pathetic little pet project? Allow me to update you on the situation, Nathan;  _ I broke your hero. _ ”

Thunder rumbled again in the background, punctuating Wade’s words. Another streak of lightning cracked the sky in half, throwing the scene into stark relief for half a second. Nate had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind.

“I know, Wade. I saw what happened. And it was unfortunate, I’ll admit that, but—”

“No!” Wade’s voice rose, creeping towards hysterical. “No ‘buts’! It wasn’t ‘unfortunate.’ It wasn’t a ‘regrettable misstep’ that you can have Irene spin for you, you callous bastard! He was good, okay? The best there ever fucking was and I…I—” Wade recalled the sight of Spider-man huddled on the roof of the apartment complex, trembling and unresponsive even through the mask. The greatest man, super or otherwise, that Wade had ever known, reduced to rubble because Wade had pushed him too far.

This is why we can’t have nice things.

**We ruin them.**

“I ruined him,” Wade finished.

Nate’s eyes narrowed, the white-blue becoming a sinister, all-seeing slit. “Surely you don’t think Spider-man’s actions are your fault. Do you attribute no agency to him at all?”

“Oh, because New York’s Sweetheart is going around snapping necks left and right?” Wade spat. “Correlation may not be causation, jackass, but let’s think about ‘influence’ for a second, shall we? That was the point of this doomed enterprise, wasn’t it? If you put the misbehaving child at the good kid’s table, eventually he’ll learn some manners, right? Well guess what, genius, it’s a two-way fucking street.” Nate’s mouth was set in a tense, tight line, but he didn’t interrupt. His restraint made Wade want to murder something. “So, tell me something Future Boy, how could you not see that coming? Huh? Why would you let me do that to him?”

“I didn’t  _ let _ you do anything, Wade,” Nate replied. “What happened tonight was solely between Spider-man and you.”

Fury flared up inside Wade. “Oh,  _ please _ ,” he taunted. “As if you haven’t been pulling the strings right from the beginning.”

Even through the thickening darkness and the gusts of kicked-of dust that were swirling around the two men with increasing velocity, Wade could see the muscles in Nate’s crossed arms begin to twitch. He was getting angry. This provided Wade some weak satisfaction.

“Believe it or not, Wade,” Nate’s voice was low enough that Wade could barely hear it over the din. “I have better things to do than sit and watch you fuck around all day. I’m actually pretty busy trying to make the world a better place and I thought maybe you would be able to put your blinding self-hatred aside long enough to join me. Apparently I was wrong.”

“You sanctimonious bastard,” the thunder was coming so frequently that Wade had to scream to be heard. “You self-righteous, self-aggrandizing, proselytizing egomaniac!” Wade couldn’t stop to be impressed by the number of SAT words he apparently knew. His roiling anger was propelling him forward, physically and vocally. “This had nothing to do with your vision for the future! This is just another episode of Cable Knows Best. Hey, boys and girls! Watch as Big Brother Nathan turns this pathetic monster into a Good Little Soldier. Watch as he swings his little swords, but only when I tell him to, and try to ignore all the lives he ruins along the way!” Wade’s breath was coming in sharp little pants and he realized that tears were pooling in his eyes. He ripped off the mask, letting the tears fall down the ravaged skin of his cheeks as rain began to fall from the sky.

“Give it up, Nate,” he pleaded. “Can’t you see I’m not worth saving?”

“It’s not about salvation!” Nate roared, his composure splintering all at once. “It’s about believing that everyone has the potential to be good! It’s…it’s—” Nate reached forward and clamped his hands onto Wade’s shoulders. Wade braced for an attack, but instead of striking him Nate leveled his eyes at Wade’s uncovered face. “It’s about wanting my best goddamn friend to see himself the way I do. Don’t you get it, Wade?” Nate’s hundred-year-old voice wavered, sorrow seeping in through the cracks. “I wanted you to work with Spider-man so you could see that you aren’t so different from him at all. You  _ are _ good, Wade. You just refuse to believe it.”

The tears were falling quickly now, mixing with the rain on Wade’s face, and he found himself speechless for the first time ever. The storm raged around them and Nate raised his hands to cup Wade’s cheeks.

“You are not this place you’ve created,” Nate whispered. And Wade realized he meant the hell-scape he’d inadvertently brought them to. When it had nowhere else to go, this is where his mind sent him. “You are not barren and volatile. Not completely. I know that. And Spider-man definitely knows that now.”

Wade trembled at the certainty of Nate’s words. “But…he hates me now. I…I…I made him kill me.”

Nate shook his head. “No.  _ He _ made him do that. I suspect that he is far more upset with himself right now than he could ever be with you. I’m not saying the road from here is easy, but you will never know if you don’t try to reconcile.”

“He’ll never speak to me again.”

“Lucky for you, actions speak louder than words.”

Wade couldn’t help but roll his eyes at that. Leave it to Nate to ruin the moment with a Sunday School lesson.

“I don’t even know where to find him anymore. I highly doubt he’ll be hanging out in the usual spot for me ever again.”

Nate opened his mouth to reply, but he paused as his eyes went unfocused in a way that signified he was reading something off the infonet. All at once his posture stiffened.

“You could try the Hydra base,” he said coldly.

Wade frowned. “Why?”

“Because, according to surveillance footage, Spider-man has just been kidnapped.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for descriptions of medical torture (and, again, a general misunderstanding of how technology works)

On one hand, possessing a brain that was in a constant flux of self-destruction and rebuilding and thus no hope of ever functioning normally was a definite disadvantage to Wade. On the other hand, having a mind that was constantly splintering off in a million different directions gave Wade a unique ability in trying circumstances. Namely, he was capable of complete panic and complete focus at the same time (no points for guessing which box handled which extreme.) And the X-Men could go fuck themselves if they thought  _ that  _ and not his in-depth weapons training was what made him dangerous. He may not have always known right from wrong, but he knew enough to rescue the kidnapped hero (that he and the X-Men also occasionally disagreed on their definition of “hero” was a separate issue entirely, and one to be settled by Cable and his dad anyway.)

In any case, Wade felt that his instantaneous reaction in both the panic and rescue mission directions were to his credit, since they both boiled down to the same idea:

We can’t let anything bad happen to Spider-man.

**We can’t let anything bad happen to Spider-man.**

So, Wade immediately shoved Nate away and body-slid back into reality, not bothering to check to see if he’d dragged Nate along behind him. Part of Wade wouldn’t have been too upset if Nate had gotten stuck in his weird self-hatred expressionism world for a while because he was still convinced that this whole mess was a little bit Nate’s fault. Obviously it never would have occurred to Wade to job shadow Spider-man in the first place, so that was part of it. But there also remained the lingering question of how exactly Hydra had figured out where Wade would be in the first place. ( **And no, “comic book logic”/”omnipresent evil agency is always watching” are not satisfying answers to that question.** ) A well-known alliance with the high-profile Mutant Messiah seemed like a good place to start looking for answers.

**Rescue now, fill plot holes later.**

Right.

Luckily, this time around Wade re-materialized somewhere he actually recognized: the vaguely serial-killer-esque half-darkness of Weasel’s apartment. The man himself appeared to have been taking a nap on his futon, but he was decidedly awake when Wade leapt directly onto his abdomen in order to get his attention.

“OW, Jesus Christ! What the—” Weasel scrambled for his glasses. “Wade? The fuck, dude. I thought we agreed no more jumping on me when I’m asleep! If you want my attention just yell or something.”

“Weasel, shut up,” Wade slapped a hand over his friend’s mouth. “This isn’t like that. It’s an emergency.”

Weasel’s eyebrows shot up, and Wade could feel him trying to open his mouth, but Wade didn’t have time for this to turn into a whole expository  _ thing _ . So, he plowed forward.

“Listen, I need the virus. The Hydra guys, they nabbed Spidey and I have to go save him before…before they…”

Weasel seemed to catch the implied horror because he nodded and shoved Wade’s hand away in earnest.

“You think they’ve got a replicate serum somehow?” he asked.

“I have no idea, but since when has ‘kidnapped by nazis’ ever led to something good?”

Weasel nodded and his face did something weird, but not “oh no what a catastrophe let me do everything in my power to help bring our boy Spider-man home safe” weird, which rubbed Wade the wrong fucking way.

“What?” he demanded.

Weasel frowned. “No, it’s nothing. But, like, I  _ just _ saw you guys. How did this happen so quickly?”

Wade’s urgency was quickly blossoming into frantic desperation.

“Hi, I’m Deadpool. Master assassin, thief, overall sorry excuse for a human being? My brain is made entirely of loose screws? Have we met?”  Well, he did ask to be yelled at. “How the fuck do you think it happened?”

“Okay, dude, Jesus. I was just wondering.”

Wade had never wanted to kill someone more, and that was really saying something. His self-restraint in that moment was herculean, borderline Nobel Prize-worthy. Luckily for Weasel, he had developed a sense of self-preservation around Wade over the years and seemed to realize that now was not the time for a detailed analysis of cause and effect.

“Fine. Un-straddle me and I’ll get you the flash drive.”

Wade rolled off of Weasel’s lap and watched him put the finishing touches on whatever technological apocalypse he had created before yanking the flash drive out of the port.

“Okay,” Weasel said, holding the drive out for Wade to take. “Just like I said, all you have to do is get this to a computer somewhere in the Hydra network. My program should do the rest.”

Wade nodded and stuffed the drive into one of his pouches, ready to get this shit show on the road. But Weasel grabbed his shoulders before he could leave.

“Wade, wait,” the weird expression was back on Weasel’s face. Wade was tempted to smack the smaller man across the room and make a dramatic exit, but he’d never seen Weasel so…worried before. And Weasel had seen at least as much shit as Wade had.

“What? I’m kinda working on a deadline here, buddy.”

Weasel bit his lip. “You didn’t look at everything on that drive, did you?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Cause Killbrew didn’t just send them the instructions for unlocking a mutate healing factor. I guess he learned from his mistakes with you and developed a serum to reverse the epigenetic effects of the torture.” Weasel spoke quietly but urgently. “Wade, he found a way to un-do your healing factor. He found a way to kill you.”

In any other scenario Wade would have met this revelation with fear and jubilation. But, right now all of his malfunctioning cells were screaming at him to leave, to find Spider-man and to whisk him away somewhere no one could ever lay a hand on him again, no matter what it took (an idea the white box agreed with loudly and in shocking language.) Every part of Wade was primed for action. He didn’t have any energy left over to worry about himself.

“So I’ll take that, too. Fuck, Weasel, I don’t have time for this!” He tugged out of Weasel’s grasp, but he immediately latched back on.

“Wade, Jesus, are you listening to me? They can kill you. For good. Game over. Do you—” he sounded anguished, but he let go of Wade’s arm. “Goddammit, Wade. I know you worship him or whatever, but, fuck, dude. Spider-man is still just some guy.”

Wade recalled the way Spidey’s fingertips had felt against his naked skin, warm and sure and tantalizingly, terrifyingly unafraid. His breath against Wade’s lips, an  _ almost _ , a  _ could have been _ , a  _ something worth fighting for  _ (assuming White didn’t lose their shit next time) _.  _ And he shook his head. Because Weasel was wrong. Whoever Spider-man “really” was, with the mask or without it, he wasn’t just some guy. And even if he was, Wade couldn’t leave him to be torn to pieces by the forces of evil just because Wade might get hurt in the process. Being alive wasn’t worth that price.

“It’s not about worship, buddy,” Wade said. “It’s about doing the right thing.”

And if Weasel had anything more to say, his words were lost to the sound of the apartment door slamming shut behind Wade.

*****

The thing about shock is that it makes you kind of useless. Your blood pressure drops, you heartbeat and breathing speed up, your stomach tries to climb into your mouth and your brain tries to escape into a cloud of fear and confusion. The rest of Peter’s body desperately wanted to follow it.

He’d seen people die before, was the thing. Had a hand in it, even. He still woke up sometimes in the middle of the night, screaming for Gwen. He hadn’t thought it was possible to know horror stronger than accidentally killing someone you loved. But, then, Peter had never been able to feel bones snapping beneath his grasp as the lights in someone’s eyes went out.

He’d never be able to un-know what he was capable of.

The fact that someone had shoved him headfirst into a bag and whisked him off the roof was almost an afterthought. Wade’s blank eyes stared at Peter from the back of his eyelids, and once the bag and his mask were ripped off by insistent hands, the glare of bright industrial lamps pointed directly into his face was a relief. The shock had numbed him, he no longer cared that his identity was supposed to stay hidden. He was a fraud now anyway. All he felt was cold.

Behind his head several voices conferred, hushed and urgent. Faintly he could make out the clatter of metal against metal and running water. More hands yanking Peter around, stripping off the top half of his suit. Something cool dabbed at the inside of his elbow. Again, he let them claw at him without resistance.

A dark shape came into his field of vision, blocking the light from what Peter now figured were surgical lamps. A face, covered by a green skull-cap and goggles. A Hydra agent, which, all things considered, Peter supposed shouldn’t surprise him.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Peter recognized the agent’s fearful voice when he spoke. It was the nerd from before. “So, so sorry.”

Then, the nerd was gone again and all Peter could hear was a general bustle in the background. Preparation. Eventually, a different figure took the nerd’s place and Peter recognized another familiar face.

“We meet again,” Head Hydra Guy’s grin was grotesque, somehow both too large and too small simultaneously, settling awkwardly on the man’s features like his facial muscles weren’t entirely sure what emotion they were supposed to be expressing. “And I have to admit, Spider-man, you’ve taken us all by surprise. We assumed after your ostentatious display at the warehouse that you were Deadpool’s ally. One might have guessed you were trying to  _ impress _ him, even.” Head Hydra Guy chuckled and raised a hand, now wrapped in bandages and conspicuously down a pointer finger, and rubbed his chin. “Had we known there was  _ trouble in paradise, _ ” He pantomimed snapping someone’s neck and Peter could hear laughter elsewhere in the room. His stomach twisted. “We might have changed our tactics. But, beggars can’t be choosers, and the show must go on. I’m sure you know from the information you stole that we plan to duplicate the serum used by Dr. Killbrew to unlock Wade Wilson’s expedited healing factor. And thanks to Mr. Wilson’s carelessness in leaving behind some very helpful tissue samples.”

_ Wade’s fingers _ , Peter realized. The fingers Wade had lost trying to save Peter from his own stupidity.

“We have been able to develop what we believe to be a very promising experimental batch. All that’s left to do is test it.” The misshaped grin stretched back across the man’s face. “That, I’m sure you’ve already surmised, is where you come in. Hydra thanks you for your sacrifice, Spider-man. Your assistance in ushering in a most glorious age will not go un-remembered.”

Then, Head Hydra Guy stepped back and several anonymous agents with various medical paraphernalia took his place. Peter probably should have been panicked or furious. He probably should have fought back against the hands that prodded at him. But, in that moment all Peter could think of was Weasel’s promise to expose him if he hurt Wade. He hadn’t done anything but hurt Wade. Maybe more than anyone else in his life had ever managed. Peter’s face would be splashed across the front page of The Daily Bugle by this time tomorrow. There were probably journalists camped out in front of Aunt May’s house already, trampling her azaleas. God, she would be furious.

Finally, the medical staff decided that Peter was ready to go. The nerdy agent appeared once more. He didn’t speak this time but the hypodermic needle in his hand trembled just a little. Peter recalled the echo of the agent’s previous whisper:

_ I’m so sorry about this. So, so sorry. _

And all Peter could think was:  _ me too. _

Then, he felt the pinprick of the needle pressing into his arm and the ice that had been creeping through his veins turned to fire.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the end now :) I just wanted to thank all of you again for your support and your lovely comments. Thank you so much for sticking with me. I hope you like this chapter, because it's another of my favorites!  
> TW: medical torture, violence.

 As Wade suspected, getting back into Hydra HQ without Spidey to back him up was difficult, given that his success this time around really depended on stealth. Stealth wasn’t his forte, especially given how eager he was to get to wherever Spidey was being held before something horrible (or, well, more horrible) happened. Not optimal conditions for aiming a fucking blow gun full of tranquilizer darts.

**Just stay calm. If we don’t knock the guards out we don’t stand a chance. Concentrate.**

Would someone like to explain to me why we aren’t just blowing these motherfuckers’ heads off? They have Spidey. They’re probably torturing him. Remember torture?

Wade didn’t bother to explain that he did remember torture, thank you very much, and that he would have done anything to spare Spider-man (and just about everyone else) that particular experience. But as much as his fingers itched to pull out his beretta and mow down every last agent standing between himself and the monsters who had Spidey hostage, Yellow was right. If he blew his cover now getting inside would be nearly impossible. He had to play the long game.

So, he stalked through the silent alleyways felling guard after guard until he was sure his path to the entrance was clear. From there it was just a quick swipe of a severed Hydra commander finger across the scanner and Wade was back in the dusty warehouse once more. All signs of the previous night’s struggle were gone, but now that he knew where to look, the hidden wall panels leading down to the labs below were obvious. Again, the severed finger made gaining entrance to the stairwells easy. Apparently one of the perks of being a Vintage Villain Conglomerate was wild over-confidence.

**You do know that most people don’t take severed body parts as fight souvenirs, right?**

“Their loss,” Wade muttered, winding his way down the steep staircase. He was good at his job for a reason. There’s no room to be fastidious when you kill people for a living. Or when you rescue them.

The nearer Wade got to the bottom of the stairwell the more he noticed the bitter smell of hospital-grade antiseptic. If Wade hadn’t already been frantic to get to Spidey in time, that would have done it. In Wade’s experience, bad guys and disinfectants in underground labs almost never made for a public-welfare-minded combination.

**They must have figured out Killbrew’s serum.**

I told you they were torturing him! I told you! We should have burned this place down when we had the chance.

Wade broke into a run. He cared a little less about the element of surprise now that he was already inside. Now was kicking down doors time.

Finally.

His first handful of door kicks did not bear fruit— possibly because the first few doors he came to were labeled “Storage” and “Employee Restroom.” But it never hurt to warm up your good kicking foot. In fact, the banality of the long gray hallway almost led him to bypass an unassuming door labeled “Surgery 1” if it hadn’t been for the screaming.

A bloodcurdling cry split the silence of the eerily empty base, trailing off into pitiful sobs. The outburst was followed by muffled shuffling sounds and a stern voice calling: “Restrain him!”

“That sounds like our cue,” Wade said to the boxes, then raised his leg and smashed his foot against the lock. All his warm-up payed off, because the door crashed inward at the first impact, listing crazily from one hinge. The move was meant to draw as much attention to Wade’s entrance as possible. But, as Wade saw as soon as the door swung out of his way, the room was already in a state of complete pandemonium.

True to the good old Hydra labeling, the room was set up to accommodate a surgical procedure, with a gurney in the center of the room surrounded by blinding lamps, tables covered in pointy metal utensils, and a ring of agents with Hydra-green scrubs scrambling to restrain the man on the gurney.  The patient, a young-looking man with a mess of brown hair and an expression of pure agony, was the source of the screaming. The anguish was recognizable to Wade, even if the man himself wasn’t. Or, at least, he wasn’t until he kicked a leg out of the orderly’s grasp and Wade could see what the man was wearing from the waist down. Skin-tight spandex. In Spider-man red.

Kill them.

Wade shook his head. He had to know what they’d done to him, and how to fix it. He had to think strategically. He had to think like a hero.

**We can’t cut off heads. We have to carve out the heart.**

Before anyone in the room noticed the new addition to the peanut gallery, Wade wheeled around trying to figure out who was calling the shots around here. He didn’t have to look far. One wall of the operating room was dominated by screens, not unlike Weasel’s apartment. But instead of surveillance footage and deep web forums, these screens showed Wade’s familiar genetic readout and footage of Spider-man writhing on the operating table. In front of the screens stood a black-clad figure with his hands clasped behind his back. His right hand bore a substantial bandage where his pointer finger should have been.

**Bingo. Heart.**

Calling upon his last vestige of patience, Wade slipped a knife from his boot and snuck up behind the Hydra commander. The man yelped when the blade pressed against his throat, but Wade locked his grip around the man’s torso and pressed his mouth against the man’s ear, to make goddamn sure he could hear.

“You know, men like you are the reason I have trust issues,” Wade growled, ignoring the concerned murmuring of agents behind him who had just noticed him. Spidey was whimpering. “See, you break into a guy’s hideout, you cut his finger off, you think he knows where you stand. But next thing you know that same motherfucker’s got your best guy strapped to a table with needles sticking out of his arms. Now, tell me, did I somehow not manage to make my feelings about Spider-man’s well-being  _ crystal fucking clear? _ ”

The only response was a gurgling sound. Wade loosened his grip on the man’s throat and tried again.

“Well?” he shook the man again. “Speak up, honey. You know how I love our little chats.”

Now the man let out a laugh, albeit a strained one.

“You’re too late,” he croaked. “We’ve already administered the serum. It’s only a matter of time before the accelerated healing factor is triggered. That is, if the serum doesn’t just kill him first.”

For just a moment, Wade was back in the bowels of Weapon X, listening to Dr. Killbrew explain to him that not everyone was strong enough to withstand the procedure. That the screams around him were the screams of the dying. They sounded an awful lot like the sounds Spider-man was making now.

“No.” Wade said. “I won’t let that happen to him.”

“Oh, you poor, dumb animal,” the man crooned sickeningly. “Not even your brute strength can save him now. Go ahead, snap my neck like he did yours. There will always be another to take my place, just as there will be others who will fill the shoes of your beloved  _ hero _ once he had surpassed his usefulness here.”

**Think, Wade. What would Spidey do** ?

“Oh, I’m not going to kill you, commandant,” Wade said, releasing his hold on the man’s neck and digging into one of his pouches. “I think I’ll let your superiors do that.”

And then he plunged his final tranquilizer dart straight into the man’s neck. He crumpled immediately. Wade made a mental note to send Clint a fruit basket as thanks for letting him use the good stuff. Admittedly, watching a Hydra leader slip slowly into unconsciousness with an expression of utter confusion on his face was nowhere near as satisfying as watching a Hydra leader slip slowly into unconsciousness as he bled out through a hole in his small intestine would have been. But Wade would save a fortune on suit cleaning. So, maybe everything evened out in the end.

Satisfied that General Hux was out of commission for the time being, Wade turned back toward the operating table where Spider-man was still moaning quietly and the remaining agents were all standing more or less motionless. They stared at Wade and their fallen commander, no doubt remembering what happened the last time Deadpool showed up in their neck of the woods and trying to gauge the likelihood of it happening again.

“What?” Wade asked. “Do I have something on my face?”

Uneasy glances were passed around the room. Wade raised his hands in front of him and dropped the knife to the floor. Several agents jumped at the sound.

“Look,” Wade said. “I just came here to get my friend.” He nodded at Spidey. “Just drop all your scalpels and shit and I’ll let you go. You can still walk away from this.”

More nervous glances passed throughout the group. One agent, the one hovering closest to the side of Spidey’s prone body, looked between Spider-man and Wade’s outstretched hands.

“You’re not going to kill us?” the agent asked. His voice cracked around the last word.

Wade shook his head. “Not unless I have to. But, I really don’t think it has to come to that. I mean, you guys are smart. You know what happens when you try to fight me.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Even Spidey seemed to be holding his breath. Then, without conferring, the agents began dropping their various implements to the floor.

Holy shit! The “rational conversation” thing actually worked.

When Wade made no move to attack now that they were all disarmed, the agents began to turn away and run out of the room. All except one. The agent who had spoken earlier remained by Spidey’s bed fiddling with the wires connected to his arm.

“What are you doing?” Wade demanded, finally rushing to Spidey’s side. The poor kid looked worse for the wear. Not that Wade knew what Spidey looked like on a good day, but he had the makings of a handsome face when he wasn’t in the throes of anguish. Now his face was twisted into a pained grimace and his chestnut brown hair was clinging to his sweaty forehead.

“Disconnecting him from the serum,” the agent said briskly, yanking a packet of liquid away from the IV tubes. He discarded that packet then turned to a cooler behind him to draw out another. “He was only hooked up for a few minutes, but this stuff works quickly. If we’re going to undo the damage we need to start administering the antidote now before the shock activates the healing factor.”

The agent began the process of attaching the new serum to Spidey’s IV, but he paused, looking at Wade in askance.

“What?” Wade demanded.

“I just…we only have one of these,” he held up the serum.

Wade had no idea why the agent had decided  _ now _ was the time to do an inventory update.

“So?”

“So…” the agent sounded awkward. “So I assume you intend to destroy our records of Killbrew’s files”  **Oh yeah. That.** “Which means the formula for the healing factor reversal serum will be gone, too.”

“What’s your point?”

“I mean we haven’t had a chance to test this and, well, we don’t even know if it will work. But, I just thought you should know that if you wanted to reverse your own…condition, this is your only chance.”

Wade stared at the agent’s goggled, inscrutable face for a long moment. He couldn’t tell if the agent was joking or not.

“What will happen to Spidey if he doesn’t get it?” Wade asked.

“I can’t say for sure. But it will either kill him, or…or…”

**Or he’ll end up like us.**

Wade looked back down at Spidey. His eyes were open now. They were bloodshot and leaking tears from the corners. But they were also dark brown and beautiful and looking to Wade to do the right thing. Wade thought of this gorgeous, ridiculous, _good_ man being shackled with constant pain and an endless, pointless life span. And he shook his head.

“Give it to him,” he told the agent. “It would be wasted on me.”

The agent nodded and began connecting the pack of serum to the IV.

“I can’t guarantee this will work,” he said grimly.

But that didn’t matter now. The agent, after doing what he could, left Wade alone with Spider-man. The base fell silent. All there was left to do was wait.

Wade, not knowing what else to do, reached down to push a clump of hair off Spidey’s clammy forehead. The hero’s eyes fluttered shut.

“Bet this…isn’t how…you pictured…getting me into bed…is it?” Spidey’s voice was shot from the screaming. He sounded so…small, so fragile. So far from the agile, confident hero of the night before.

Wade gasped out a weak laugh. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time, Spidey.”

Spidey shook his head. “Just…Peter, now.”

“What?”

“That’s…my name. Peter Parker.”

Dread settled into Wade’s stomach.

“Why did you tell me that?”

“Because…you might as well know, now,” his face was beginning to turn gray, which seemed to Wade to be a Bad Sign.

“No, no, shhh,” Wade reached down and laced his fingers through Spidey’s. “Don’t talk like that, Spidey.”

“Peter.”

“Fine, Peter. It’s very nice to meet you. Now shut up. I need to figure out a way to get you out of here.”

Spidey--or Peter, apparently--shook his head weakly and swallowed hard.

“No, Wade, listen, please. I need you to find someone, okay? I have…this Aunt. Her name is May. She…she’s the only family I have left. I need…I need you to tell her what happened.”

“Tell her yourself,” through his fear, Wade’s tone came out angry.

Peter shook his head again.

“Wade, please,” tears streamed down his cheeks in earnest now. “Weasel can help. He knows, okay? He can find her. Just…please…”

“Peter,” Wade whispered, pressing the hero’s cold hand against his own cheek. “I can’t…I can’t tell your aunt that you’re gone. I won’t. She wouldn’t want to hear it from me. She…she wouldn’t even want to see me.”

“She would,” Peter’s voice grew fainter and his eyes fluttered closed once more. “She’ll love you. We’re the same…like that.”

“What? Peter?” Wade shook his shoulder, but the younger man was silent, his breathing labored. “Peter? No, no, stay with me. Peter….please.”

But it was no use. Whatever battle was raging inside of Peter’s body had taken the last of his strength. Wade spent the long horrible minutes watching the last few drops of serum empty into Peter’s veins with only Weasel’s virus slowly emptying Hydra’s technological coffers of their dangerous secrets to distract him. When the last of the serum was gone, Wade removed the various needles and wires as gingerly as he could. There was probably a more proper medical procedure to follow from here, but, well, the agent was right; there was no way to know what would happen to Peter now. And if he was going to wake up, Wade didn’t want him to wake up  _ here. _

So, for the third time in the short period that they had known each other, Wade drew the unconscious Peter Parker into his arms and carried him out to the street. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next to last chapter. Are you ready?

It had been a long time since Wade had felt the need to follow orders. Sure, he would meet his employers’ demands in order to get paid. And, sure, Nate’s idea of friendship was closer to affectionate authoritarianism. But, those were optional facets of Wade’s life. Things he could have walked away from without feeling too bad about it. But, Wade knew, as he left the Hydra compound yet again that he couldn’t ignore Spider-man’s last request. He could barely live with himself as it was.

So, Wade did as he was told. A quick phone call to Weasel did (unsurprisingly) yield an address for May Parker, as well as the knowledge that Weasel had apparently been willing to pull the trigger on Spider-man’s secret identity for a while now.

**Once again, I question why** **_we’re_ ** **considered the dangerous one.**

Terrifying hobbies aside, Weasel’s info was good. The address led Wade to a semi-detached townhouse in Queens where an older woman answered the door on the third knock. She had dark hair turning gray around the temples and kind, brown eyes that resembled Peter’s more, Wade suspected, due to a likeness of spirit than genetic similarity. She didn’t even seem surprised to see a large masked man standing on her porch holding the unconscious body of her nephew. She just stood to the side and ushered Wade in, pointing him towards a bedroom at the top of the stairs. Wade wondered how many times this kind of thing had happened to her. Peter had nearly died three times in the few days Wade had known him. He couldn’t imagine what 26 years of fearing for your loved one did to a person.

She had a system down, though. Quietly and industriously May asked Wade what had happened this time. Wade explained, not bothering to edit for content because Peter had said she should know. To her credit, she handled the news well, simply tucking the blankets up tighter around her nephew’s chest and gently stroking his pale cheeks. Wade remembered Peter’s description of her as “the only family I have left.” He hated himself for bringing her even more tragedy and abruptly felt out of place, an unwanted spectator to this family’s grief.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to save him.”

May smiled sadly. “What’s your name? Your real name, if you don’t mind my knowing.”

He didn’t.

“Wade Wilson,” he replied.

“Well, Mr. Wilson, please don’t worry about my opinion of you. If I know Peter--and I do--you could only do as much as he would let you do.”

They remained silent for a few moments. At one point, May excused herself, citing some household task or another that required her attention. She made Wade promise to come find her if there were any changes. But Wade remained by Peter’s bedside for what could have been hours or days or millennia and the hero remained terrifyingly still. Wade had only rarely been a man of any faith, but he understood then why it is that people pray.

At some point, May returned.

“You know,” the woman’s voice came softly from the doorway. May entered the room and set a steaming cup of tea down on the bedside table in front of Wade. “He’s never liked letting people take care of him. Not even when he was a little boy. I think he was afraid his uncle and  I might find him to be a nuisance if he complained about anything. He’s always tried to solve all the world’s problems on his own, even before all of this…spider business.” She smiled weakly at her unconscious nephew. “Used to scare me out of my wits,the way he would sneak out at night and come back covered in bruises. But, when Peter sets his mind to something there’s just no budging him. Stubborn as a bull,” she laughed. “We’re the same that way.”

Wade was struck again by the feeling that he was utterly out of place, though May herself wasn’t doing anything to make him feel that way.

**If you leave before he wakes up I will never forgive you.**

“Can I ask,” Wade said, his voice cracking from exhaustion. “How long before you stopped feeling so scared all the time?”

May smiled, simultaneously gentle and keen and slid the mug of tea slightly closer to Wade’s clasped hands.

“I suspect you already know that the feeling never completely goes away,” she said. “There aren’t support groups for this kind of thing, though maybe there should be.” She sighed, remembering old pain in the manner of those who have become accustomed to it. “I do all the usual things, I suppose. I watch the news, read the papers. Call him once a week, make sure he’s eating his vegetables. I try to remember that for all his secrets, Peter is still the stubborn, big-hearted boy I raised. And I trust that boy.”

The conviction in May’s voice went through Wade like a sword. For a bizarre moment, he felt lost in time,like he was 10-years-old again, sitting by his mother’s bedside in muted autumn sunlight. “You’re a good boy, Wade,” she was saying, though he had lost the exact sound of her voice somewhere along the line. “You’re a good boy, Wade. You just have to remember that, okay?” Wade wondered how his life might have been different if she’d been around longer to remind him, if he might someday have taken her words to heart. But mostly, he was glad May had been around to remind Peter.

“Of course,” May continued, interrupting Wade’s train of thought. “I did set up some rules.”

Wade didn’t find that surprising at all.  _ Of course _ any relative of Spidey’s would share his love of strict guidelines. 

“Yeah?” he said. “What were those?”

May was looking at Wade now, the shadow of her nephew’s stubborn-ness in the set of her jaw.

“There are no secret identities in my house,” she said, resolute. “I trust Peter to have good taste in friends, but as long as it’s just you and me here, I’d like to be able to see your eyes while I’m speaking to you.”

Wade’s stomach lurched, but something in May’s expression told him he wouldn’t be able to deny her this.

We have always had a soft spot for older women.

Wade reached up and peeled off the mask, wincing—as always—at the feeling of the air against his skin, even though it wasn’t painful, strictly speaking. He braced himself for the gasping and fainting that usually accompanied mature women seeing his uncovered face. But May just studied him with a shrewd expression.

“Well, Mr. Wilson,” she said eventually, a hint of humor in her voice. “If you were expecting me to be scandalized you’re going to have to do a little better than that.”

And then, Wade did something even he, in the darkest recesses of his uniquely macabre imagination could have dreamed up. He threw back his head and laughed.

*****

Peter woke up a few hours later. May had gone downstairs again, but Wade had elected to keep his vigil by the sleeping hero’s bedside. He was beginning to doze off when Peter’s eyes blinked open and he made a grumpy, snuffling sound. Wade was at attention in an instant.

“Spidey?” he said, uncertain whether he was allowed to use the man’s real name, now that the crisis seemed to be averted.

“Wade?” Peter rasped. “’S’at you?”

“Yeah,” Wade shifted closer on his chair, his hand hovering over Peter’s, not wanting to touch him, either. Not until he was certain he was allowed. Belatedly, Wade remembered he wasn’t wearing his mask. He ducked his head. “Sorry. Probably not the prettiest sight to wake up to. Your aunt made me take off the mask and, wouldn’t you know it,there wasn’t a sexy nurse to be had in all of Queens.”

“Shut up,” Peter said.

Wade felt something brush against his outstretched hand. Peter’s fingers curled upwards, stroking the length of Wade’s palm.

“I’m happy to see you,” Peter continued. “We at Aunt May’s?”

“Yeah,” Wade replied, allowing himself to smile even though White was doing their best cardiac arrest impression. “Quite a woman, your Aunt May, not gonna lie.”

Peter frowned adorably. “Don’t hit on my aunt, Wade.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Wade winked. “She’s way out of my league. Must run in the family.”

Peter’s expression turned sheepish and he slipped his fingers between Wade’s so they were holding hands properly. White made a keening sound then went offline, leaving Wade to marvel at this bizarre alternate universe he must have slipped into.

“Shut up,” Peter said again. “You’re not allowed to flirt until I’m awake enough to reciprocate. Besides, if Aunt May hears you saying stuff like that she’ll bust out the baby pictures and nobody wants that.”

Wade grinned. He grinned despite the voice in his head (Yellow) that told him this couldn’t last, that this beautiful vision of a man smiling at Wade like his face wasn’t grotesque would disappear any moment. Wade grinned like the future heartbreak didn’t matter. For now, it didn’t. Because Spider-man —Peter— was grinning back. And Wade was allowed to see him do so.

“On the contrary, I definitely want that. I’mma call her back in right now and ask.”

“I can’t believe you’re making fun of me after I almost died,” Peter rolled his eyes, but Wade could see the smile fighting with the corners of his mouth. “You’re such a dick.”

“Language, young man,” May was standing in the doorway again, beaming in her nephew’s direction.

Peter’s face turned sheepish again, as if he was embarrassed for his aunt to see him in his current state. Wade remembered May’s comment about Peter never wanting anyone to worry about him and felt immeasurably fond towards this reckless, selfless boy all over again.

“Hi, Aunt May,” Peter said.

“I heard voices so I thought I’d come see,” she glanced between Peter and Wade. “Is it alright if I come in?”

“Of course,” Wade drew back and let May come fuss over Peter, fluffing his pillow and feeling his forehead though she knew he didn’t have a fever. Of course, whether or not Peter was genuinely okay was unclear. The reversal serum was without precedent. But, Wade knew from experience that if the healing factor serum was going to kill you it was going to do it quick. If Peter was still alive now, well, that was something.

“Well,” May said, once she was satisfied that her boy was out of harm’s way for now. “You’ll live. You’re lucky Mr. Wilson was so quick thinking, or I might have been very unhappy with you Peter Parker.” The blush that crept up Peter’s cheeks was utterly charming. “And I do hope you’ve said thank you to Mr. Wilson. He’s gone through an awful lot of trouble for you.”

Peter’s voice did the sputtering thing it always did when he was nervous as he stuttered out his reply.

“I…I mean, I was…I would have gotten to it!”

May tutted in a way that endeared her to Wade entirely. He really did have a thing for older women.

“Well I suggest you get to it quickly,” she leveled a meaningful look at Peter. “He’s a very  _ nice man, _ you know.”

Peter’s blush approached lobster levels and Wade’s heart, like, soared or something. Peter looked healthy. He looked alive. And when May bustled back out of the room with a knowing smile on her face Wade suddenly felt the full weight of their…aloneness. Especially since Peter’s eyes were fixed on Wade’s face and…well, that generally was bad for business.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said softly, which seemed incorrect.

“Why?” Wade asked.

Peter’s teeth dug into his lower lip.

“For…for what I did to you, before all the Hydra stuff.”

Wade shook his head. “Forget about it. I goaded you into it. There’s nothing to forgive.”

“No, Wade, no,” Peter struggled into a sitting position. “Just because people have always treated you like shit doesn’t mean it’s okay. What I did to you was horrible. I can’t say that I’m against violence and then turn around and hurt someone I…no. No. I…I don’t get to be off the hook. I have to apologize. And I have to…to make it up to you, somehow, even if that means you want me to leave you alone forever. Because whether you believe it or not, that is what you are worthy of. That’s what you deserve.”

_ You’re a good boy, Wade. You just have to remember that. _

There was…too much happening inside of Wade: affection, fear, denial, and a few horrible, wonderful things he didn’t even have words for. So, he wrenched his face into a grin.

“See, now, that’s not what you said a few days ago.”

Peter didn’t smile in return.

“I was wrong,” he said simply. “You purposefully gave up your only chance at a cure for your healing factor on the off chance that it might save my life. That’s what heroes do. Cable was right. You are good. I just didn’t see it until now.”

Wade let the words settle into his aching skin. Then he smiled for real. Then he remembered something important.

“Yeah?” he said. “Even though I threw you off a bridge the first time we met?”

**That’s called a callback, folks.**

Peter’s eyes went wide. Then he burst out laughing.

“Oh my god! I forgot all about that!” he wiped at his eyes with the corner of his comforter. “Jesus, dude, is there anything we  _ haven’t _ done wrong?”

“Speak for yourself, Spidey. This is still the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had.” Wade replied.

“Maybe we should start over. Or…get some kind of counseling,” Peter’s return smile was a tentative thing. “I should talk to Cable about it. Maybe he knows someone who can mentor us.”

“Nate does love a project,” Wade laughed. “I’ll ask Irene. She loves other people’s drama.”

Peter’s smile grew. He was still examining Wade’s face with careful concentration. It scared Wade a little less now.

“Hey Wade,” he said, quiet once again.

“Yeah, Spidey?”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, Peter. I’d do it all again any time.”

“Hey Wade,” Peter’s hand had found its way into Wade’s once again.

“Yeah?”

“I really like you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter leaned in close now. Or maybe Wade did. All he knew was he was close enough to see Peter’s smile crinkle around the sides of his eyes and feel Peter’s breath on his cheek. “Would it be…would it upset you if I asked to kiss you right now?”

Wade considered this for a moment. He waited for feedback from the boxes. He waited for the panic that had taken control of him on the rooftop. He waited to feel anything other than pleasant anticipation.

But, nothing happened. The fear of losing Peter entirely had re-wired him. Or something more scientific than that, but which amounted to more or less the same thing. There was no vast, emotional spiral in any direction. Just warmth.

“Spider-man, I can’t think of anything that would upset me less.”

And maybe it was inappropriate. Maybe this wasn’t the right time, or the right place, or the right way. Maybe Cable would have disapproved or May would have shaken her head at them.

But, in that moment, as Peter rested a hand against Wade’s neck and slid a thumb along his jawline, none of that mattered. They were alone, and out of danger, and teetering on the precipice of reconciliation. Maybe there was more work to be done in that direction. Maybe Wade should have doubted everything Peter said. But he didn’t. And even Yellow couldn’t argue with his conviction when Peter leaned forward and pressed his lips against Wade’s. Wade reached down and looped an arm around Peter’s waist, hauling him closer so the two were chest to chest. He could feel Peter’s heartbeat. And then, he let himself believe that this was real, that he was here and Peter was alive and gasping into Wade’s mouth and drawing the two of them impossibly closer.

And then he let himself believe that he was worthy of everything Peter had promised him before. He was worthy of forgiveness and kindness and love. Above everything else, Wade let himself believe that he was good.


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are kids. Last chapter. Again, I want to thank you guys for sticking with me so long. I've read every single one of your comments and it means so much to me that you've had such lovely things to say about this silly little thing that I wrote on a whim. You guys are the best and I love you all dearly. 
> 
> As a parting gift, I posted the "soundtrack" I listened to while writing the story. I think Wade would approve of my song selection. You can find that here: http://8tracks.com/lifeisrandom34/i-just-died-in-your-arms
> 
> Also: I have a ko-fi page here: http://ko-fi.com/A6019F7   
> Obviously there's no pressure, but if you liked the story and you want to throw a few dollars my way to help me out with future caffeinated writing adventures, that would be awesome (but it's cool if you can't. Life is expensive, man. I know how it goes.)
> 
> FINALLY (I'm almost done I swear): if you wanna come chat with me more about these lovable nerd boys (or anything else, really), my tumblr is acesiren.tumblr.com. Come say hi, if you're so inclined. :)

Peter stripped his mask off as soon as he got through his apartment window and swept his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

“Jesus, it’s hot outside,” he complained into the humidity of his pitiful studio.

“If only you knew someone with a lot of money and an air conditioned apartment,” a voice drawled from Peter’s futon. “A boyfriend of some kind. That’s still what the kids call them these days, right? Boyfriends?”

“Ha ha,” Peter dropped a kiss on Wade’s forehead in passing. “If your apartment is so much nicer, why are you here?”

“Me?” Wade turned to peer over the back of the futon as Peter peeled himself out of his skin-tight suit. “I’m just here to mercilessly objectify you and eat all your microwave popcorn.”

Peter tossed his suit in the general direction of the laundry basket.

“Do I have microwave popcorn?”

“Nope,” Wade grinned and winked ludicrously, at which Peter rolled his eyes.

Things with Wade were…well, they  _ were _ , which still surprised Peter now and then. Wade’s guilt had compelled him to stay by Peter’s side throughout his convalescence, which Peter had anticipated. But, once another trip to the Empire State labs revealed that Peter’s genetics, at least, were no worse for wear, he thought maybe Wade would want some space.

And Wade did, to an extent. Cable had deemed Wade “probably as reformed as he was going to get” and allowed him to return to Providence. Peter stayed home for the time being, trying to get back into patrolling little by little. He had it on good authority that Irene Merryweather was absolutely dying to meet him. But, for now, he was content to get the news second hand from Wade whenever he came back.

Because he did come back. He gave Peter updates about diplomatic accords or thwarted assassinations, at which Wade was becoming quite adept, apparently. And as time went on and Peter continued to welcome him, Wade grew more and more sure of himself. First he staked his claim in Peter’s house, then in his arms, and--after a protracted discussion about boundaries and self-esteem—in Peter’s bed.

And, bizarrely, it all worked. Not that they always got along, mind; Wade could still be unpredictable and mired in self loathing; Peter was still learning to forgive both Wade and himself for failing to be quite as “heroic” as Peter wanted them to be. It was a process. It was  _ difficult. _ But, accepting imperfection became easier for Peter every day and once Wade believed he was worthy of his place by Peter’s side, he was willing to do what it took to stay there.

Plus, Wade had finally let Peter see what he really looked like under the Deadpool suit and scar tissue or not the dude was built. Peter wasn’t going to pretend that hadn’t provided him with an exciting avenue for self-exploration, okay? He just wasn’t.

So, things between Wade and him  _ were _ . And a great many of those things were good. Like this moment, for example. Peter smiled at this ridiculous, heroic man sitting on the lumpy futon in Peter’s hot, stuffy apartment in nothing but his boxers, just so he could greet Peter right when he got home.

Peter rounded the futon and slung his leg over Wade’s lap, straddling him.

“How was Providence?” he asked the skin just behind Wade’s ear.

“Oh, you know,” Wade tipped his head back to give Peter better access. “Same old same old. Tropical, quiet, full of powerful people who  _ really _ do not like me.”

“Mmmm,” Peter hummed and pressed kisses down Wade’s jaw line. Wade trailed his fingertips up Peter’s back, drawing lazy patterns on his already over-heated skin. “They’ll come around.”

“You did,” Wade agreed, reaching one hand up to thread his fingers through Peter’s hair and draw Peter’s mouth close enough to kiss properly. Peter let himself melt into the embrace, grinding down in earnest now. 

“Actually,” Wade pulled back a few centimeters. “You came around quite a few times, if I remember correctly.”

“Shut up,” Peter pulled Wade back into a kiss that was more laughter than actual contact.

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that things weren’t always perfect. Because things were good.


End file.
